Thrilling Wonder Stories v33n02 (1948 12.Standard)

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LET'S PRY INTO
THE UNKNOWN

ShaMufe?

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WDNDER

Vol. XXXI II, No. 2

A THRILLING PUBLICATION

December, 1948

THE GHOST PLANET

By MURRAY LEINSTER

When Tom Drake first saw the misty globes,
authorities thought him daft — until those
globes suddenly came right down to earth! 13

Three Complete Novelets
240,000 MILES STRAIGHT UP L. Ron Hubbard 42

The “Angel" was named in sarcasm — a fact officials failed to take into
account when they sent him to the Moon on a Mission of surrender!

FRUITS OF THE ACATHON Charles L. Harness 64

Freudian Toring denies the infallibility of the machine that predicts death
— and ventures an experiment to challenge mankind

THE MOBIUS TRAIL George 0. Smith 105

Boon or blight — what would be the future of the new and ingenious marvel
of science which was known as teleportation?

Six Short Stories

SCHIZOPHRENIC

A HORSE ON ME...
THE OFF SEASON . ..
A CHILD IS CRYING

KNOCK

FUZZY HEAD

Featured Short Novel

Noel Loomis 58

Benj. Miller 89

Ray Bradbury 99

John D. MacDonald 131

Fredric Brown 138

Frank Belknap Long 144

Special Features

THE READER SPEAKS The Editor 6

WORLD ON A POGO STICK F. Orlin Tremaine 82

THE FRYING PAN A Fanzine Review 172

SCIENCE FICTION BOOK REVIEW A Department 175

Also See “Wonder Oddities" Page 57, and “ High School Alchemist,” Page 143

Cover Painting by Earle Bergey — Illustrating “Fruits of the Agathon”

Published every other month by STANDARD MAGAZINES, INC., 10 East 40th Street, New York 16,
N. Y. N. L. Pines, President. Copyright, 1948, by Standard Magazines, Inc. Subscription (12 issues),
$3.00, single copies, 25c. Foreign and Canadian postage extra. Re-entered as second-class matter
October 8. 1946, at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under Act of March 3, 1879. Names of all
characters used in stories and semi- fiction articles are fictitious. If the name of any living person
or existing Institution is used, it is a coincidence.

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A DEPARTMENT FOR SCIENCE FICTION FANS

I N THE course of holding down this defi-
nitely uneasy editorial chair for a num-
ber of years we have gradually come to
be concerned anent the overwhelming pre-
occupation with dictatorship and its concomi-
tant, uncontrolled power, which seems sorely
to afflict even the most democratically in-
clined of our authors and readers.

We have, in the half-decade just past, re-
ceived at least a thousand stories and perhaps
twice as many letters in which some sort of
local, national, global or galactic system of
government was suggested. And it is a con-
servative estimate to say that at least ninety
per cent of these planned societies have been
based upon the principle of ultimate human
power — in other words, no matter how they
slice it, it’s the same old bologna.

Alien invaders threaten subjugation of
humanity — universal emperors are continu-
ally being toppled from their star-thrones —
scientific technocracies, invariably dominated
by “boards,” which in turn are dominated by
some sort of a “director,” promote sterile
Utopias — or gallant humanitarian “heroes”
revolt against such setups to assume a benev-
olent autocracy themselves.

But no matter how they slice it. . . .

The Same Old Trap

One of the more amusing sidelights of this
preoccupation with supreme power lies in the
fact that many of the more articulate con-
tributors to this column have assailed us for
publishing such stories — and then, tackling
the craft of fiction writing themselves, have
almost invariably fallen into the same old
elephant trap of thought cliches.

Thanks to the continual imminence of
deadlines the editor of any magazine is to a

great extent in the power of his authors. He
can beg, cajole, suggest, demand revision and
return manuscripts unpurchased — but when
presstime rolls around, as it inevitably must,
he is compelled to prepare the best material
he has on hand and, with a small prayer to
Zoroaster, send it along to the printer.

When the bulk of his contributors go gal-
loping off en masse on a single tangent, his
magazine is bound to be a reflection of the
fact.

Battling the Trend

We have been battling the trend toward
fictional dictatorship for many a moon now —
and we think with some success. The August
TWS contained MR. ZYTZTZ GOES TO
MARS by Noel Loomis, a novel about the
curious reaction of the human mind to its
own regulations in dealing with alien life,
three novelets dealing with various human
and “alien” foibles, as well as scientific de-
vices, and five short stories of which only
one, REGULATIONS by Murray Leinster,
had to do with the human yen for vast power.

In the October issue Miss Leigh Brackett
tackled the fanciful effects of a hyper-radio-
activity upon Terrans and Venusians on the
planet of the latter, the two novelets dealt
with exploration of race memory and the
effect of a general union of atoms on a small
town and the short stories were, for the most
part, clear of autocratic implications.

This issue, save for L. Ron Hubbard’s 240,-
000 MILES STRAIGHT UP, which has a
megalomaniac hegrvy, and the somewhat
dim-bulb killer ifl Charles L. Harness’
FRUITS OF THE AGATHON, who is a trifle
on the paranoiac side, manages to keep clear
(Continued on page 8)

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THE HEADER STEAKS

(Continued from page 6)

for the most part of this overdeveloped bump
of pomposity. And while A. E. van Vogt,
come THE WEAPON SHOPS OF ISHER in
our February edition, does deal with the
struggle for world power, he hardly does so
in the old pseudo-heroic pattern.

In other words, we’re continuing to search
for something less hackneyed for our authors
to slice.

An Ageless Preoccupation

We thought, for some time, that this pre-
occupation with power and the conspiratorial
struggle for power was the result of the cur-
rent world conflicts — with Francos, Trujillos,
Stalins, Mussolinis, Hitlers, Perons and their
mordant confreres providing the stimulus.
Frankly, it scared us.

Then it occurred to us that this same pre-
occupation is ageless — going back through
Plutarch to Xenophon and the chronicles of
the ancient Persian court and doubtless be-
yond that to the still more ancient empires
of China and Egypt. It doesn’t require much
reading of Plutarch to discover that this har-
ried globe has always been overstaffed with
people who look at life through distortion
mirrors in which they see themselves as all-
powerful demagogues of one sort or another
— and usually through the noblest of motives.

The ideals of democracy and anarchy,
thanks to their very decentralization of pow-
er, will never, we fear, offer visions as en-
ticing. Not, at least, to any but the truly ma-
ture, of whom we have all too few.

And then we had another thought about
our contributors’ preoccupation with power.
Perhaps it is a lot easier to write about a
mythical organization with just one central
character in the main focus. And perhaps,
just as we who live in a republic either tend
to venerate the titles of feudalism or to revile
them with a highly suspect vehemence when
given the opportunity, so we find glamour
in the other chaps' pasture.

The Struggle for Power

Naturally, we are aware of the fact that
much of science fiction should deal with the
vast struggle for power which must, alas,

(Continued on page 10)

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THE READER SPEAKS

( Continued from page 8)

continue around us as long as material ambi-
tion is a part of the human credo.

But direct fictional dealing with such pow-
er in itself will never, we fear, be the basis
of the so-called “classic,” to say nothing of
solid literary achievement in the science fic-
tion field. Such work must approach the
greater struggle, not through the small end
of the telescope of future history but through

its large lens in short, the effect of this

struggle, galactic or Terran, on the individual
as an individual, not as a symbol of power
himself.

Somewhat irrelevantly it occurs to us that
it is this very approach which makes the
work of Ray Bradbury so outstanding. He
does not see the destruction of a world
throught the eyes of the man who presses
the atomic button — but through the eyes and
emotions of the castaway who witnesses the
horror from the solitude of a far planet.

It is this truer perspective which we seek
above all in our authors — and we believe
that, in varying degree, we are getting it.
We can’t slice it often enough!

A DISAPPOINTING RESPONSE

W E HAVE repeatedly announced that
this issue of TWS would run a listing
of interested fan organizations like that in the
July STARTLING STORIES. But the num-
ber of such groups that responded is so small
that they need microscopic attention. They
follow —

The Canadian Science Fiction Association. Avail-
able either to single or group applicants. Membership
currently about 60. Address Publicity Chairman Greg
Cranston, 184 Glen Road, Hamilton, Ontario.

The Cincinnati Fantasy Group. Secretary, Donald
E. Ford, 129 Maple Avenue, Sharonvllle, Ohio. This
outfit will be host at the big convention next Septem-
ber 3-4-5 and those wishing to have their names
entered in the convention booklet will send one dollar
membership fee to Mr. Ford.

Digamma Sigma Phi. A fan group in Hamilton, On-
tario, with seven enthusiastic members and a
"healthy" program, whatever that is. Secretary, Greg
Cranston, 184 Glen Road, Hamilton, Ontario.

Outlanders Society. Informal group In Los Angeles
area. Contact Rick Sneary, 2962 Santa Ana Street,
South Gate, California.

Queens Science Fiction League. Will Sykora, head
man. P. O. Box No. 4, Steinway Station, Queens, Long
Island, New York.

Young Fandom. Tries to help young fans. Dues
50c per year. President, Harley Sachs, 208*^ South
Michigan Street, South Bend 11, Indiana.

We are grateful to the above entrants and
wish them luck and all good things. But un-
( Continued on page 151)

10

KNOWLEDGE
THAT HA S
ENDURED WITH THE
PYRAMIDS

A SECRET METHOD FOR
THE MASTERY OF* LIFE

W HENCE came the knowledge that built the Pyramids
and the mighty Temples of the Pharaohs? Civiliza-
(ion began in the Nile Valley centuries ago. Where
did ita first builders acquire their astounding yrisdom that
started mari pri his upward climb? Beginning with naught
they overcame nature's forces and gave the world its find
sciences and arts* Did their knowledge come from a race now:
submerged beneath the 6ea, or were they touched with Infinite
inspiration? From what concealed source came the wisdom
that produced 6uch characters as Amenhotep IV, Leonardo da amerhotep iv

Vinci, Isaac Newton, and a host pf others? Pounder of Egypt's

Today it is \nowri that they discovered and learned to inter- School*

pret certain Secret Methods for the development of their
inner power of mind. They learned to command the inner
forces within their own beings, and to master life. This secret
art of living has been preserved and handed down throughout
the ages. Today it is extended to those who dare to use its
profound principles to meet and solve the problems of life
in these Complex times,

This Sealed Boole — FREE

Hal fife brought you that personal satisfaction, the sense of achiever
ment and happiness that you desire? If not, it is your duty to your-
self to learn about this rational method of applying natural laws fotf
the mastery of life. To the thoughtful person it is obvious that every-
one cannot be entrusted with an intimate knowledge of the mysteries
of life, for everyone is not capable of properly using it. But if you
are one of those possessed of a true desire to forge ahead and wish td
make use of the subtle influence! of life, tire Rosicrudans (not a re-
ligious organization) will send you A Sealed Book of explanation;
without obligation. This Sealed Boole tells how you, in the privacy of
your own home, without interference with your personal affairs or
manner of living, may receive these Secret teachings. Not weird or
strange practices, but a rational application of the basic laws of life.
Use the coupon, and obtain your complimentary copy,

Tfce ROSICRUCIANS

SAN JOSE (amorc) CALIFORNIA

Use 03s
coupon fa f
FREQ <■*
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THE

PLANET

CHAPTER I
Solar Newcomer

T OM DRAKE was the first human be-
ing who is known to have come in
contact with the inhabitants of the
Ghost Planet. At the time the Ghost Planet
wasn’t even a name. It was undreamed of.

More, Tom had to admit that he neither
saw nor heard nor felt the creatures whose
existence he reported. The instruments of
the Weddington had recorded absolutely

13

nothing out of the ordinary. So, on his ar-
rival at Earth, Tom was politely fired from
the staff of the Blair Memorial Expedition
to Titan and found his affairs in a parlous
state.

The encounter itself almost justified that
action. The Weddington was the emergency
craft left on Titan with the observing mem-
bers of the expedition. After eleven months
of routine observations temperaments
clashed, crotchets developed and lunacy im-
pended. So the Weddington was sent back

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

14

to earth for mail, reading-matter and visi-
records to save the situation.

Because of her size, only two men were
required to man her. One was Tom Drake,
who had no nerves and was the lowliest
member of the expedition’s staff — the other
navigatiff^Msmber of the crew, was the most
high-stnittg'. ^hid nerve-racked of the whole
force on.opitftn.

Four day^ out toward Earth he blew up
with a loiuj report and had to take a hypnotic
for twelvC’ , -hours of restful slumber so he
could continue to navigate the W eddington.
The W eddington s course was close by Mars
then and, .While the navigator snored heavily
in his buflk, Tom Drake took post in the
control roqm and relaxed.

It was very lonely. The sun was a small
round flarhe; The stars were many-colored
unwinking specks of light. Tom Drake re-
garded the instruments which said that the
little ship went on her course without in-
cident. Mars was a dim red disk of pinhead
size far off to the left.

The tiny ship went streaking through
emptiness without any of the ghastly sounds
her drive produced in atmosphere, leaving
behind the thinnest and most tenuous of tails,
which was created by the infinitesimal ex-
haust of ionized gases.

Later Tom was inclined to credit the whole
thing to that tail. The Weddingtotv was still
accelerating and would do so for three days
more, switching to deceleration well past
Mars. Partial compensation for acceleration
allowed of a high speed-gain rate.

Everything seemed utterly normal — de-
pressingly so, in fact. The exploration of the
other planets of the solar system had been
disappointing. None would support a colony.
There were observatories on Mars and Luna
and Mercury, but the Weddington was alone
in emptiness.

Tom thought regretfully of ancient dreams
of interplanetary commerce and almost re-
sentfully of the recent tendency not even to
dream of interstellar journeyings.

And then he saw something odd.

It was a tiny speck of mistiness, perhaps
half the size of the disk of Mars. It was
almost in line with the red planet. And in
interplanetary space there should be nothing
misty save comets. Tom regarded it absent-
ly for a moment, then swung a telescope to
bear.

It was a globular mass of unsubstantial re-
flecting stuff, like a puff of smoke in empti-

ness. Which, of course, was impossible.
Also, this particular object was new. It
hadn’t been in sight in the neighborhood of
Mars a little while since.

Presently it was larger and its angular dis-
tance from Mars had increased. Since it was
on the side away from the sun and the
U'eddington sped sunward, that made him
stare. He took a reading of the angle be-
tween the mist and the planet. Ten minutes
later the mistiness had increased in size by
several seconds of arc and the angle between
it and Mars had decreased again.

The logical inference would be that it was
between the space-ship and the planet, that
it was moving nearer to the space-ship and
that it had just changed course. But that
was preposterous ! The thing had no sub-
stance! In the telescope he could see fourth
magnitude stars through the very center of
the mist.

H ALF an hour after he first sighted it,
it was on the sunward side of Mars
and was larger still. Had it been a solid
object he would have considered that it was
accelerating at a terrific rate and speeding to
intercept him.

But it was not solid! Not only could he
see remote stars through it but, when he
turned a radar-scanner on it, the instrument
registered exactly nothing. There was not
even a tiny meteorite in its center. There
was nothing there except mistiness. But it
continued to move and grow.

He went back to rouse the navigator but
could get no response. Hypnogen tablets
aren’t habit forming, but they are powerful
and the navigator was out cold. Tom re-
turned to the control room and regarded the
mistiness again.

As nearly as he could tell the mist was
headed on a collision course and accelerating
at four or five gravities. He cut off the
Weddington’s drive, so the little ship would
merely drift on with her attained speed and
without acceleration. That should make the
misty globe pass on ahead.

But it changed course. From terrific ac-
celeration, too, it began suddenly to deceler-
ate. It would still meet the W eddington in
space.

It was not solid. The whole business was
unthinkable, but Tom sweated suddenly. He
thought of all the wild imaginative tales that
had been written about monsters of space.
He used the gyros to swing the W eddington

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15

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

16

about. He blasted recklessly at two gravities
at right angles to his former course.

The mist swerved and continued to grow
in size.

An hour after his first glimpse of it the
misty sphere was very near indeed — so near
that there could be no possible question that
it meant to close with the Weddington. Tom
Drake sweated profusely. He sent the small
emergency-ship in crazy gyrations at all
angles and all accelerations up to four.

The unsubstantial sphere followed each
change of direction with precision. It
matched his speed. It reached a point no
more than a hundred yards away and kept
that distance for long minutes through doz-
ens of maneuverings.

It was a diaphanous globe of utter un-
substantiality. Stars could be seen through
it clearly. Yet it seemed to Tom that some
distant stars were dimmed a little more than
others, as if the mistiness varied in thickness
with an internal structure. He had a good
opportunity to make these observations. The
sphere was a good thousand feet in diameter
and for minutes it clung close, no more than
three hundred feet away. Then, suddenly, it
closed in.

And nothing happened. Absolutely noth-
ing. The Weddington was enclosed, was en-
gulfed in the mist. But no alarm bell rang.
No instrument showed the slightest change
of registration. Indeed, staring out from
within the substance of the globe, it was hard
to detect any difference in the look of things.
But the Weddington was unquestionably in
the very center of the sphere of mist.

Tom Drake had an eerie feeling that he
was being watched intently by sentient be-
ings. He knew that from a little distance his
ship would appear to be the center of a
sharply edged, ball-shaped nimbus like the
head of a comet. He knew that something
was watching him. He sweated. But no in-
strument needle swerved from its peg, noth-
ing happened and nothing happened and
nothing happened.

Then the globe suddenly shifted. It was
off to one side. It moved swiftly away. It
headed back toward Mars at an incredible
acceleration.

That was all. There was no damage to
the Weddington. There was no registry on
any instrument tape to corroborate Tom’s
impressions. But the memory was very
vivid. Tom had the curious, unpleasant im-
pression that he had been examined intently

by ghosts and then left behind when their
curiosity was satisfied. It was not a nice
feeling.

When his navigator woke he told him
about the visitation. The navigator was an-
noyed. Tom’s tale was nonsense. The
Weddington, though, was off -course and
that was a serious matter. He returned her
to her proper line and speed and fretfully
reproved Tom for his absurdity.

In time he made report to the trustees of
the Blair Memorial Fund. Tom was ques-
tioned. He told his tale frankly, then in-
dignantly, then resentfully as he was disbe-
lieved. When he was informed that his con-
tract with the expedition was canceled he
was enraged. He was practically thrown out.

He was, in fact, not only given the heave-
ho but classified as an unstable personality,
which would not help in getting further em-
ployment — and that was a serious matter,
those days. Times were not good on Earth.

The population of the planet had increased
to the point where merely living was a prob-
lem. Tom Drake nearly starved — because
he’d encountered the inhabitants of the Ghost
Planet before the Ghost Planet was known
to exist. His friend Lan Hardy took him in
while he hunted for a job.

Then, three months later, the Ghost Planet
appeared in the Solar System.

CHAPTER II
Non-Material Invasion

W HEN the Ghost Planet appeared on
the far side of Neptune, of course,
nobody on Earth thought it meant anything
at all. The first news releases said only that
a new comet had been discovered. It was
coming in at a surprisingly high velocity and
it had developed a head at an extraordinary
distance from the sun.

It had no tail, as yet, but one was expected
to form. A comet’s head and tail, of course,
are simply ionized gases of almost infinite
thinness, driven out and away from the sun
by light pressure.

Tom’s friend Lan Hardy saw the news re-
leases, mentioned them to Tom and forgot
them. He was pulling wires desperately to
get some sort of Guild rating that would
justify Kit McGuire in marrying him. Her

the ghost Planet

father had been World President and at the
moment was in disgrace because he hadn’t
been able to stave off an inevitable economic
depression.

But Lan shared his apartment with Tom
and confided all his amorous dreams to him
and after Tom found a job doing electronic
design for a very small manufacturer he
stayed on with Lan because living quarters
were hard to come by.

Tom dug doggedly into books and found
nothing that would explain his experience
between Mars and Earth and ultimately had
to work out a theory of his own. And then,
without any real hope of ever putting his
ideas to use, he began to work out possible
devices which would prove or disprove his
notion.

Even he, though, didn’t connect the Ghost
Planet with what he’d seen. At first it was
called simply a new comet which had de-
veloped a head unusually far from the sun
and so far had no tail. Besides, there was
not much time given to it on the newscasts.

Even when the astronomers mentioned
that its course — they said orbit — was a
mathematically straight line headed accurate-
ly for the Sun, there was too much other
news on the vision screens for anybody to
pay attention.

There was a scandal involving a prominent
vision screen actor. Two of ^the biggest
Guilds had locked horns and conflict between
their respective members was in prospect.
A new fashion swept the earth and every
woman had to get an entirely new ward-
robe.

Work rationing appeared likely in North
America and a new orgiastic religion turned
up in Africa and spread like wildfire with a
twenty percent drop in industrial production
as a consequence. Nobody paid any attention
to the Ghost Planet except the astronomers
at the government-supported observatories
on Earth, Luna, Mars and Mercury.

Then Lan Hardy — trying to play politics
for advancement — got into trouble with a
Guildmaster and was suspended from all
connection with Guild conducted industry.
It became Tom’s turn to provide the cash
on which both of them lived for a while.

Then the astronomers reported that the
Ghost Planet — which they still called a
comet — had no detectable mass and was
completely unaffected by the mass of Nep-
tune, which should have changed its line.

They added that their spectroscopes

n

showed no sign of ionization of the gaseous
mass they then considered the Ghost Planet
to be and they expressed amazement at its
almost perfectly globular shape. And then
they observed that it had a regular diurnal
rotation, proved by the Doppler-effect dif-
ference between the light of opposite limbs.

Still there was no public interest. A muta-
tion in soil bacteria in Western Europe
threatened the fertility of ten percent of the
world’s tillable soil. Chicago won the World’s
Pennant. The world government administra-
tion which had taken over from Ex-Presi-
dent McGuire raised taxes all around and
blamed his regime for the necessity.

The Seda Mountain ore deposit was offi-
cially declared exhausted. A new vision
screen comedian shot up to the top of the
popularity polls. The value of the prizes for
naming “Mr. Sh-h-h-h” on a quiz program
mounted to $120,000.

And Lan Hardy was told that since he
was suspended from his Guild — which was
worse than expulsion, because he couldn’t
even try to join another — his quarters in a
Guild-owned building had to be vacated. So
he and Tom had nowhere to live.

Their personal dilemma bothered nobody
but themselves. Even their friends joined
the rest of the world in absorbed attention
to the prospects and games of the Inter-
hemisphere Polo Games, with' the usual
rumors of fixing, bribery and deliberate in-
jury of players.

In the week before Lan and Tom were to
be evicted, while they sought vainly for other
lodging, Australia came from far behind and
classified for the finals against the Hungar-
ian five. Ex-President McGuire forwarded
to Earth Government a heavily worded state-
ment which those then in office unanimously
ignored.

An atomic-energy plant in Patagonia
flared blue and was automatically dumped
into the pool of cadmium its flaring had
melted. There was a prison break in Mon-
treal. There was an airways accident on the
Honolulu run.

OBODY thought about the Ghost
Planet, now a flaring globe of un-
substantiality some thirty-two thousand
miles in diameter, heading in past Mars.

Then there came the night of the final
Interhemisphere polo game. Tom and Lan
saw it on the vision screen from the lodging
they were so soon to vacate. They were

18 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

watching keenly with the feeling of absolute
presence. They saw the multiple-balconied
stands about the field, the black and cloudy
sky overhead and the playing field itself in
its glare of invisible, non-glaring lights.

And in the second chukker, as there was a
tumultuous rush of men and horses after a
racing baR, •something thin and pallidly
glowing and.-a thousand feet through seemed
to settle above the lighted field. It

was barely -visible on the vision screen until
the roaringot the crowd changed to panicky
shrillness.

Then the 1 sports announcer said crisply,
“Something queer in the air. It’s barely
visible. I’af changing the contrast.’’

The seeming soft lighting became harsh
and hard and the vision-camera swung up-
ward and the photographic quality of the lens
grew hard indeed. Grainings appeared even
in the night clouds overhead. Then the vision
grew clearer.

It was a round globe of mist, almost mo-
tionless in mid-air over the polo field. It
was not substantial. When a search beam
struck it the light went right through but,
in puncturing, it seemed to disclose structure
inside.

And the internal details, misty as they
were, were not the random swirling patterns
of mist but very specific lines and masses
and angles which were convincingly artifi-
cial. It looked very familiar to Tom.

A rocket soared upward from the stands.
It had been placed to announce the victors
of the polo game. It spurted through the
wraithlike phenomenon unhindered and
burst through in a spray of blue lights above
it. Those lights drifted down through the
wraith and reiterated the look of artificiality
about its inner changes of thickness. They
went out.

The globe did not stir, though search
beams showed the smoke trail of the rocket
blowing sidewise through it. Had it been
solid or real it might have looked like an
alien space-ship, a spectral space-ship, curi-
ously watching the polo game below. But it
was not real. A private plane, joy-riding
overhead, made an hilarious lunatic dive at
the apparition, flew through it, flew through
it again and nothing happened.

Presently, in its own good time, exactly
as if it had lingered until its curiosity was
satisfied, the misty globe rose and vanished
in the darkness overhead. It acted exactly
as if living beings in it had become bored or

annoyed and had gone away. It was re-
markably like the way that other misty thing
had acted about the W eddington three
months before.

“Now, what on earth was that?” de-
manded Lan. blankly.

Tom Drake smoked furiously and said
nothing. Within minutes, the muted beep-
beeping call of a special news bulletin broke
into the restored but disorganized viewcast
of the polo game. Lan Hardy switched to
the newscast channel.

“A special broadcast of comments on the
apparition at the Interhemispheric polo game
ten minutes ago,” snapped an announcer’s
voice crisply.

The face of a famous scientist peered out
of the screen.

“I was watching the game,” he observed.
“Until the recorded telecast can be examined
in detail, I can say only that it appears to be
a very curios meteorological phenomenon.
Akin, perhaps, to radar-ghosts, which are
well-known and still not fully explained.”

His face vanished. An eminent physicist
took over.

“Very quaint. I would suggest a projected
image of some sort, thrown into emptiness
by practical jokers, except that it reflected
light thrown upon it. That suggests that it
was material. On the other hand no material
substance known can be penetrated by other
material substances without some disturbance
of the penetrated substance.”

His face disappeared. The world's best-
publicized vision comedian appeared.

“My head felt that big this morning,” said
the comedian and hiccoughed in his inimi-
table fashion. Undoubtedly, it evoked gales
of laughter from his faithful fans. “I won-
dered what happened to my hangover. It
went to the polo game!”

He leered in his equally famous manner,
and his face faded.

O THER faces and other voices. The spe-
cial-events vision department dragged
in all the big names that could be reached
within the spot news time limit. Some
hedged. Some tried feebly to wise crack.
Some uttered profound nothings. It was the
standard sopping-up process designed to get
the maximum out of any news event that
went on the air-waves. Lan Hardy scowled.

“But what was it?” he demanded again.
“This is just junk we’re getting!”

The screen flickered again and there was

THE GHOST PLANET

ex-World-President McGuire looking heavy-
liddccl out of the screen. He spoke with de-
liberate energy.

“I happen to know what the apparition
was. I have had private reports. Similar
phenomena have been reported on Mars,
I.una and Mercury. Moreover, the survey-
ship Arcturis passed close to the reported
new comet on its way back from Jupiter.
Copies of photographs taken of the appear-
ance were sent me hy personal friends.

“The appearance over the polo-field was
similar in kind to the new comet. It came
from the new comet. Two photographs of
the comet show such globes as we have just
seen, arriving at and departing from the so-
called comet.

" I have informed the World Government
of those facts. The Government will doubt-
less issue a communication on the nature of
the so-called comet and such globular arti-
facts as the vision-screen just showed us.”

His voice ceased. The screen went blank.
A smooth anonymous voice said, “This con-
cludes the special-events broadcast about the
appearance at the Interhemispheric polo
match. Further details will be included in
special feature broadcasts at the regular
hours.”

Tom Drake said slowly, "Globular arti-
facts.”

“Crazy, eh?” said Lan brightly. “He’s a
fairly decent sort when you know him
though. Kit likes him, even though he's her
father. Fairly decent to me, too.”

”[ wonder what he heard from his private
reports.” said Tom. “I’d like to talk to him.
I'd like to see those reports. I wonder if we
could query it?”

Lan shrugged. Tom punched the dials on
the vision screen and a newsfile clerk looked
impersonally out of the screen.

“What’s the data on this new comet?”
asked Tom, frowning. “The one McGuire
just mentioned ?”

“I do not recognize the reference.” said
the newsfile clerk detachedly, “but the new
comet file will be projected for you.”

There was a click and the typed record of
newscasts appeared on the screen. Tom
read ahsorbedly. Orbit . . . mass zero . . .
diurnal rotation . . . un-ionized gases. . . .
As he read the pulsing blue glow of a per-
sonal communication call appeared on the
screen under the file image. He threw the
switch to take the call. The newsfile faded.

The noi-human countenance faded
from Hi* vision screen

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

20

Kit McGuire looked appealingly out of the
screen.

“Oh, Tom ! How-do! Do you know how
I can locate Lan? My father wants him to
come out here — ”

“He’s right in this room,” said Tom.
“Thanks. Lan — can you come out to the
Coast at once? Father wants some special-
ists. It’s that new comet: business. I told
him you’d come and might find another good
man or two for him.”

“I’ll take the next plane,” said Lan, beam-
ing. “I’m being evicted anyhow. But about
someone to bring along — ”

“Me,” said Tom briefly from the back-
ground, “if I’ll do.”

“Sure !” said Lan. “I’ll bring Tom. We’re
practically on the way!”

Kit smiled at Lan. Fondly, almost tender-
ly. But her forehead was creased a little
with worry.

Tom said, “What’s up?”

"Father,” said Kit, “made the mistake of
calling the Government’s attention to the
new comet. So they’re ignoring it just be-
cause he mentioned it. And — it’s stopped.”
Lan feasted his eyes upon her.

Tom said sharply, "What’s that?”

“It’s stopped,” Kit repeated. “It was
headed straight in for the sun. And it’s
stopped. It’s standing still out in space
between Earth’s orbit and Mars.”

“Oh, it couldn’t do that!” protested Lan.
"It simply couldn’t! Heavenly bodies can’t
stand still !”

“This one does,” insisted Kit.

“Then what’s up?” asked Lan. "Are we
to get it started again?”

He grinned and Kit smiled in return. But
she looked directly out of the screen at Tom
Drake.

“Father says it isn't a comet,” she told
Tom. "He says it’s a planet. A ghost planet.
And somebody has to find out what it
wants.”

Tom jumped. The term “ghost planet”
was something to make him sit up. It sug-
gested— many things. Tom didn’t happen
to agree with Kit’s father politically, but he
did respect the older man's brains. And this
meant something ! His own brain went into
high gear.

While Lan filled out the call from Kit
with zestful, romantic conversation, Tom
Drake put together the things he knew and
some things he wouldn’t have guessed with-
out that “ghost planet” phrase. They added

up to a brand-new concept which was up-
setting.

He was packing his own possessions for
travel when the call ended and Lan came
in, smiling sentimentally.

"Funny, eh?” said Lan comfortably.
“Kit’s actually worried!”

“So am I,” said Tom. “It didn’t occur to
me before but now I begin to see things. I
saw one of those globes three months and
more ago, out by Mars. I couldn’t make my-
self believe what it pointed to. It was a
scout. You see?

“Looking over our solar system for what-
ever it wants. And it must’ve gotten an idea
that what it wants is here and — well — the
planet followed it. It was a ghost space-ship
from a ghost planet and it didn’t come here
for fun. What would ghosts living on a
ghost planet and running ghost space-ships
be wanting of Earth, Lan? Whatever it is
I’d hate to have them find it!”

CHAPTER III
Go West, Young Men

T HEY left New York on the midnight
plane and four hours later they stepped
off at the landing field at Pasadena. Ten
minutes of shuttling and they came above-
ground at the very edge of the solidly built
city. Kit waved to them from her father’s
groundcar. It was still midnight by clock
time.

The groundcar drew up beside them on its
two wheels. They entered and it went hiss-
ing softly out to the openness beyond the
city’s limits. One had to be rich to live out-
side a city these days.

The Guilds had taken over the functions
of insurance organizations, lodges and unions
all in one, and building was now so costly
that only a rich man could own an individ-
ual dwelling on an individual plot of ground.
The Guilds themselves owned a good half of
all the dwelling units in America. So people
looked envious as the groundcar sped out on
an arrow-straight road toward darkness.

It was almost the only private car in view.
There was traffic but it was gigantic ten and
twelve and twenty-wheel trucks and trailers.
The groundcar dodged among them with
needed agility and Kit spoke briefly as she

21

THE GHOST PLANET

drove. She was accustomed to this sort of
traffic. The pressure of existence on an
overcrowded world had made private vehi-
cles almost as rare as private houses.

“Quite a lot has happened since I called
you,” she said curtly. “Father spoke over
the visioncast about the thing that appeared
over the polo field tonight.”

“We saw it,” said Lan. He shifted his
position to be closer to her on the uphol-
stered seat.

“An hour later the Administration told
the newscasters that Father’s report had
been received. Their only comment was that
he seemed to be very ill ! They were hinting
that he was crazy!” She laughed angrily.

Lan Hardy said softly, “Was that why
you wanted me to come, Kit?”

“I want you to help prove he isn’t crazy !”
snapped Kit. “Just because he’s unpopular
because he tried to be a good President,
they’re trying to get more popular by ridi-
culing him!”

Tom said meditatively, “Some people
think he was not only honest but intelligent
and that he had the right ideas as President.
Naturally the politicians who replaced him
don’t like that!”

Kit turned to him eagerly. “YouTe for
him, then? You think he was a good Presi-
dent?”

“I disagreed with him practically all the
time,” admitted Tom, “but I did think he
had brains — just not the kind for that job.
I’m much more interested in — ”

“I’m not interested in your interests
then,” said Kit icily. She turned warmly to
Lan. “Lan, the problem for you to work on
is a way to prove that the Ghost Planet and
those globes are what my father says and
that they’re dangerous and something has to
be done about them!”

Lan put his arm along the back of the seat
behind her. He talked soothingly in her ears.
Tom sat in silence as the groundcar tore
through the night. Presently he looked
thoughtfully up at the stars. He watched
them, continuing to piece things together.

Suddenly he said sharply, “Pull over to
the side and stop the car, Kit!”

“Eh?” asked Lan, startled. “What’s the
matter ?”

“Pull over and stop !” snapped Tom. “It’s
important !”

In silence, Kit swerved the vehicle and
went onto the shoulder of the highway. She
stopped. Tom spoke in a voice which

sounded a little odd even to himself.

“Turn off the lights. I mean it!”

Almost instinctively Kit obeyed. There
was a temporary blackness all about. There
was, right here, no other vehicle to pierce the
darkness with its headlights or the silence
with the sound of its motor. They saw only
the stars and heard only the shrill stridula-
tion of insects and the croaking of frogs in
a nearby marsh. Then Tom pointed.
“Look there! Quick!”

Against the sky a gossamer, circular misti-
ness moved swiftly. It was lighted by the
stars which shone through it. It was mov-
ing. It was perfectly round. Perhaps —
perhaps — it glowed slightly. It rose in utter
silence and moved swiftly against the wind.
It dwindled in size and vanished.

“That one over the polo field on the other
side of the world wasn’t the only one on
Earth tonight,” said Tom grimly. “Did you
see that, Lan?”

Lan said easily, “It was the tip of a
searchbeam lighting the clouds, wasn’t it,
Tom? What of it?”

“That was a ghost globe,” said Tom
shortly. “Like the one that chased the Wed-
dington and caught it It’s from the new
comet. From the ghost planet. It’s a ghost
space-ship. There may be hundreds of them
searching for something here on Earth.”
“Come now, Tom,” said Lan kindly. “A
plane dived right through the thing over the
polo field. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be!”
“I didn’t say it was real,” said Tom brief-
ly, “but it’s actual. McGuire is right. I
wonder what they’re after?”

K IT started the groundcar again. It went
on through the night. After half an
hour she turned in a private driveway and
drove on a mile or more to her father's
house. She parked the car by a side en-
trance and led the way within.

Her father was in his study. It was an
engineer’s study, with a great commercial
fine-grain vision screen at one end. McGuire
himself, heavyset and prosaic as in the news-
cast, sat regarding an image on the screen,
shown with even greater perfection of detail
than the news screens would portray.

It was undoubtedly an image sent from
some technical service on a commercial wave
band. The image was that of a field of stars,
in the center of which a sphere of pale misti-
ness hung stationary. Stars shown behind
it. Stars shone through it. The magnifica-

22 TH' ILL1NG WONDER STORIES

tion was so great that the slight oblateness
of the wraithlike globe was visible. The
image was almost a yard across.

He swung in his chair as they entered,
nodded to Lan, acknowledged the introduc-
tion to Tom and waved his hand at the
screen.

“It’s stopped dead,” he said heavily. “This
image is from the Yerkes telescope. Six
hours ago it began to decelerate at a rate of
close to four gravities. It was going nearly
two hundred miles a second — faster than
any interplanetary space-ship we’ve ever
made has built up to. In two hours it was
down to a dead stop. And it’s stayed
stopped.”

Lan said brightly, “Very interesting, sir.”

“Smaller globes, like the one over the
polo field, have been seen going to it and
coming from it,” McGuire added heavily,
“but I can’t seem to get any — ”

“We saw another, sir,” said Tom, “on
the way here from town. And I saw one
nearly three months ago, out near Mars.”

McGuire swung in his chair. “Yes?”

Tom told the story of the W eddington and
the ghost-ship. “When I was in the middle
of it,” he finished, “I had the feeling that I
was being watched. But my report got me
fired from the Titan Expedition as a luna-
tic.”

McGuire asked crisp questions. Mostly
they were technical ones, about acceleration
of the ghost-ship and the like. McGuire had
been an engineer, not a politician, before his
election to the World Presidency and he was
not thinking like a politician now. He was
absorbed in a problem in whose importance
he believed.

But Lan interrupted the questioning to say
respectfully, “You can count on us to do any
work you need done, Mr. McGuire. Have
you anything in mind for us to do right
away?”

McGuire looked at his daughter’s fiance
detachedly. “I’m waiting for reports,” he
observed. “It was Kit’s idea that you might
be useful. Any suggestions?”

“No, sir,” said Lan cheerfully. “Only
that we get our luggage in from the car. I’ll
do that, sir.”

He made a graceful exit, followed by Kit.
Tom stayed uncomfortably where he stood.
“I’ve got a rather crazy idea, sir,” he said
awkwardly. “It comes from a theory — ”

A speaker unit spoke with startling clarity
from the wall. "A number of mist-globes

are leaving the sunward side of the large
sphere. They appear to be arranging them-
selves in a geometric pattern.”

McGuire pressed a button and the image
on the screen changed to an even more en-
larged view of the ghost planet. Only a part
of its edge was in view, now. And there
was a distinct formation of tiny, almost trans-
parent objects moving away from it.

There were dozens of them. They spread
out in an expanding V and moved steadily
across the star-speckled background. They
looked like bits of thistledown in space.
Stars shone right through them.

The speaker unit said crisply, “They are
accelerating at four point two gravities.
Their course appears to be toward Earth.”

McGuire watched. Tom drew in his
breath sharply. He reached forward and
touched the screen.

“Look!” he said sharply. “If this Ghost
Planet were solid — see? There’d be moun-
tains here!”

There were small but distinct serrations at
the edge of the almost transparent disk. The
loudspeaker spoke again.

“This is the third such formation that has
moved toward Earth in the past four hours.”

“And the Administration says I’m crazy,”
said McGuire wrily. “Strictly speaking, it’s
none of my business. It should be left to
official departments. But 1 was head of the
government for awhile. I know better than
to think the only duty of a private citizen is
obedience !”

Then he reverted to Tom’s comment. “Of
course they’re mountains. But they’re mist.
They’re impalpable. They’re imponderable.
They’re unreal! But if they were real — if a
planet thirty-odd thousand miles in diameter
moved into our solar system and its space-
ships began to explore Earth in squadrons —
then I think the Government wouldn’t call
me crazy !”

T OM said carefully, “There is — er —
substance of this sort known?”

There was another booming voice from
another room beyond McGuire’s study.

“News bulletin! News bulletin! Two
misty objects or apparitions like that seen
over the interhemispheric polo match some
hours ago have appeared over Honolulu!
They are hovering over the city now!”

Kit appeared in the doorway, her hair a
little disheveled. “Father! Did you hear
that?”

THE GHOST PLANET

McGuire got up and walked heavily out in-
to the next room, where a standard broad-
cast vision receiver had interrupted a period
of romantic music to bellow out the news.
The technical screen in the study would re-
main on the observatory beam McGuire had
arranged for. This was a news broadcast all
the world would see. Lan Hardy got up
hastily from a sofa. Tom observed that he
looked annoyed.

The three men — McGuire, Tom and Lan
— watched the news broadcast in silence
while Kit looked from one to another of their
faces. This vision cast was not as clear as
that from the polo field. The misty globes
were higher and not as well lighted, even
though search-beams sought them out and
followed them.

The two globes drifted over the city,
stopped together, moved onward together,
made systematic circlings as if inspecting
everything below them with great care — and
went off into the darkness.

“Well?” said McGuire when it was over.
He spoke to Tom. It apparently did not
occur to him to question Lan.

Tom hesitated. Then he said, “I-ook here,
sir. We say things are real or unreal as we
say they are red or green. But there isn’t
any absolute redness or greenness. Things
are just more or less red or green.

“We recognize that redness and greenness
are abstractions only. Maybe reality and un-
reality are more or less abstract ideas too.
Maybe nothing is wholly real and nothing is
absolutely unreal.”

McGuire stared at Tom; Thoughtfully.
“Mmmmm. Go on.”

“Maybe there’s no absolute reality,” said
Tom. “Just as there’s no absolute red. And
maybe there’s no absolute unreality. There
are some suns in the star catalogs that are
known to have densities as low as the vacua
in X-ray tubes.

“That’s not matter in the ordinary sense
of the word. Those suns glow, and they
exist, but they’re on the border of unreality.
If this ghost planet and these globes are like
that — ”

McGuire looked at him in a curious mix-
ture of approval and doubt.

“If they are — ”

“If there’s a type of matter on the border-
line of reality, it might be matter on the bor-
derline between our cosmos and another.
Matter not wholly real in our universe, but
not wholly unreal either. Possibly — well —

23

latent matter. Like latent energy. Like —
say — trigger-energy or atomic energy.

“It would be real enough in its own uni-
verse. It would even have an infinitesimal,
perhaps immeasurable mass in this. The
point is that if this were a planet from a
ghost sun, searching for something here — it
wouldn’t be here for the trip.

“And it would have some way either of
turning into matter which was real here or
of making our matter into its own kind. It’s
space-ships are spying on us. It must have
a purpose. It could be — ”

Tom hesitated. “Apparently its space-
ships have been making public appearances
to see if we have any weapon we can use
against them. When they find we haven't —
when they’re sure — they’ll probably begin to
seize on whatever it is they want of us.”
McGuire said practically, “And what
would you guess that to be?”

Tom shrugged. “They could get any pos-
sible mineral matter from Mercury, and most
organic materials from Venus. But there’s
no intelligent life except on Earth. Would
the}' want intelligent creatures — in short,
men? I don’t know.”

But as it happened Tom made that guess
just eight hours before the first human be-
ing, in Cleveland, Ohio, was engulfed in a
misty glebe which came down from the sky
and enclosed him — -and then, before the eyes
of his goggling fellow-humans, turned him
into mist like the thing which had captured
him.

CHAPTER IV
Political Implications

I T IS always dawn somewhere on Earth.

Tom Drake saw the sun rise where he
worked feverishly in the private laboratory
attached to McGuire’s house. McGuire had
been an eminent engineer before he became
the most unpopular president the World
Government ever had.

He was a sound thinker even after he was
retired to private life and became the Earth’s
most scorned private citizen. He was
equipped to verify, with his own apparatus,
any material and any calculation used in any
type of engineering design he was likely to
be concerned with.

24

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

Tom worked all night long till sunrise, put-
ting together an unlikely small contrivance
which — if it worked — would tell something
about what the ghost globes were made of.
1 } one could be contacted.

Meanwhile there was panic in Calcutta
where a religious festival procession turned
into stark terror-stricken flight when a ghost
globe settled down in the middle of it. But
the ghost globes were merely facts.

They rated with flying disks and other
phenomena which at various times had been
credibly reported by large numbers of people
and then had ceased to be reported and been
dropped into the limbo of forgotten things.
The globes had been broadcast, to be sure,
but nobody — except ex-President McGuire
— had an 'explanation for them and nobody
was willing to take his word for anything.

He’d become World President because the
public was tired of professional politicians
which were nothing else. He’d suffered the
fate of all men less thick skinned than pro-
fessional politicians. When, returned to
private life, he tried to do a public service he
was ignored.

Part of that ignoring took the form of
playing up all other news items than the
ghost globes and the ghost planet. A woman
in Cairo had quintuplets. A London-Ottawa
plane crashed on landing and a hundred and
twenty persons were killed.

There was a school fire in Johannesburg,
an unusually gory murder in Stockholm, a
quaint “royal” wedding between members
of formerly royal families in Central Europe,
with ancient pomp and ceremony. There was
a jurisdictional dispute between two Guilds
which was threatening to throw two hundred
thousand men out of work because of the
question of the classification of four jobs in
an atomic-power plant in Siberia and the
regular run of sensational and merely idiotic
news.

But one item made the morning newscasts
about the globes. One of them settled upon
the Smithsonian Museum main building in
Washington. When the sun rose in the East-
ern time zone the globe enclosed two-thirds
of an antique building dating from the early
twentieth century.

It was pale and thin and wraithlike but the
morning sunlight showed it clearly. It looked
rather like a balloon of sheerest gossamer
except for those disturbing hints of internal
structure.

For some reason unknown fire engines

were called out. They poured huge streams
of water upon and into the wraith. The
streams went right through the uncanny
sphere. The buildings of the Smithsonian —
not only the one englobed, but others nearby
— got very, very wet. There was no other
result that could be detected. When the
globe got ready, in its own good time, it lifted
from the drenched structure and vanished
in the sky. That was all.

But that was at dawn on the Eastern coast.
At that time Tom Drake worked obliviously
in McGuire’s laboratory. He did not even
hear the spot news announcement. The
dawn traveled westward and the citie%woke
in their turn. Buffalo woke, and Cleveland,
and Detroit and Chicago.

The dawn went on toward the Rockies.
It crossed them. And Tom, in Pasadena,
blinked wearily at the new-risen sun in the
Pacific time-zone when the globes took their
first specific overt action against a human
being.

It was in Cleveland at a quarter to nine,
local time. The morning rush to work was
in full swung. Away downtown, where
Euclid Avenue runs into Lincoln Square, the
sidewalks were crammed with workbound
pedestrians. It was an extraordinarily bright
and sunshiny morning for the city of Cleve-
land.

The air was utterly clear and the look of
things was normal in every possible way.
Hurrying, crowding people — stenographers,
bookkeepers, minor executives — salesgirls,
porters, typists, clerks. The sidewalks were
crowded and the pavements between were
jammed with traffic.

Even the walkways around the very ugly
Lincoln Monument were filled with people
using them as short cuts across the square.
Everything was exactly as it had been ten
thousand mornings before and could reason-
ably be expected to before ten thousand
mornings after.

But suddenly, above the noise of feet on
concrete walks and the sounds of traffic in the
streets, there came a high shrill scream.

It was not a scream of pain but of terror.
A man stood stock-still and shrieked. He
was an absurd, pudgy, bespectactled man
with a ridiculous mustache. He was later
learned to be a certain Arthur V. Handmet-
ter, a foreman in a factory making artificial
flowers. He stood as if frozen on the side-
walk with his eyes wide and staring. He
screamed and screamed and screamed.

THE GHOST PLANET

O THER figures shrank away from him,
clearing a space and staring at him.
There was absolutely nothing that they
could see at first to account for the pudgy
man’s panic. He screamed again and again
and a policeman shouldered through the
crowd toward him.

Then the crowd noticed that his screams
grew thinner. Standing there before them
in a ten-foot cleared space, the little man’s
shrieking grew muted as if far away. His
mouth was open and his body was rigid in a
paralyzed horror. But his voice grew thin-
ner.

Perhaps, at this time, some of those about
him began to notice that the clarity of the
morning air had faded a little. The sky was
not quite so blue and the sunlight was dim-
mer. But they noticed first that his body
began to grow translucent. His screams had
only the volume of whispers then, but they
were high pitched and penetrating.

The policemen tried to seize him. Then
there was panic unutterable. The policeman’s
hand went through the arm of Mr. Arthur
V. Handmetter as if it were smoke. The
people about him fled in stark unreasoning
terror, turning wide and horrified eyes be-
hind them as they fled.

They saw Mr. Handmetter become more
and more translucent and then become trans-
parent — still making the faintest of shrill
screams — and finally he faded into nothing-
ness in the deep shadow which had fallen
imperceptibly upon the square as he van-
ished.

When he had gone — then quite all of the
square and blocks of Euclid Avenue itself
and other blocks of other streets opening in-
to the square became like madhouses. Those
who had known only of something strange

25

occurring in the square and had been cran-
ing their necks saw more than they had bar-
gained for.

They saw a great, thousand-foot globe
acquire the seeming of substance, bit by bit.
At the beginning it was so thin and so tenu-
ous that none really saw it. But as the sub-
stance of Mr. Handmetter diminished the
substance of the wraith increased.

It became misty even in the sunlight. It
grew smoky. Partitions and floors appeared
within it. Shapes moved, dimly seen through
its spherical walls. It grew more and more
opaque — and it was an alien Thing, not
wholly real but certainly not imagined.

Then the wave of panic broke in the
Square. Men fled from the shadow of the
thing of smoke. And, like a flood of pure
terror, others turned and fled until all down-
town Cleveland became a bedlam of scream-
ing, fleeing humanity.

It was a catastrophe of major proportions
in dead and injured in the crush. But act-
ually, nothing whatever had happened save
that a mist globe had settled down in Lincoln
Square, and one single human being — Mr.
Handmetter— had turned slowly to mist as
he screamed his horror and the mist globe
increased in thickness as he vanished.

It was a thousand feet in diameter and it
had, at the end, j ust as much of substantiality
as a globe of smoke containing a hundred and
fifty pounds of substance might have had.

But then it rose sedately from the square
■ — the ugly Lincoln Monument withdrawing
from its substance as the globe arose — and
ascended swiftly and diminished to the size
of a tennis ball, then to the size of a marble,
then to a spot and a speck and a mote — and
then vanished utterly.

[Turn page ]

26 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

Mr. Handmetter, of course, vanished with before. Some oddities in electronic behavior

it.

Out near Pasadena Lan Hardy smiled
brightly at Kit across the breakfast table.
It was one hour later by actual time, and one
hour earlier by local clocks. Tom came in
from the lab, McGuire following him. They
sat down at the table, Tom looked discour-
aged. McGuire drank his coffee without a
word.

“Father,” said Kit. “What do you think
of that Cleveland affair?”

McGuire nodded at Tom.

“It knocked my ideas all out,” said Tom.
“I should’ve known it in advance, though.
But now I know that what I was trying to
make wouldn’t work even in theory.”

Lan said cheerily, “Why didn’t you ask
me to help, Tom?”

“I was doing it by eaF,” said Tom morose-
ly. “Trying to work out a theory that would
work by finding out what didn’t.”

McGuire said abruptly, “You had some
good ideas, though.”

“What were you trying to do?” asked Kit.
“Trying to make a ghost,” said Tom,
sourly. “That Cleveland business shows it
can’t be done without ghost material to swap.
But it’s perfectly obvious once you see it !
I made a fool of myself!”

L AN HARDY attacked his breakfast
with a hearty appetite. He smiled
sentimentally at Kit from time to time.

“This young man,” said McGuire, almost
grimly, “has an idea that fits the pieces to-
gether better than anything else that’s been
suggested to my knowledge. There are stars
which shine and are quite actual but with
no greater densities than the vacuums in
vision-screen tubes.

“They are matter as compared to the empti-
ness of interstellar space, but a star shouldn’t
exist with no greater density than that.
There’ve always been mathematical diffi-
culties in computing their constants. So
Tom suggests that they're actually ghost
stars — stars of which the planets will be
ghosts like the one between Earth and
Mars.”

“That’s the idea you sprang last night,”
said Lan, smiling. “A beautiful way to
dodge a lot of problems.”

McGuire looked detachedly at Lan. He
said, “His suggestion is that there may be
two parallel universes with one or more
dimensions in common. It’s been postulated

call for more than three dimensions in the
greater cosmos of which our cosmos is a
part.

“Tom suggests that a sun in that other
cosmos may, because of the dimensions com-
mon to both, be on the borderline of existence
in this. Conversely, a solid sun in this uni-
verse may be a ghostly apparition in that.

“Like a cork floating on water. To a fish
it is perceptible but hardly significant be-
cause it only touches the water and is not in
it. The ghost planet and the ghost globes
are detectable in this cosmos, because they
touch it. They aren’t real in it because they
aren’t in it. They’re ghosts to us. And” —
McGuire said abruptly — “that would mean
that we are ghosts to them.”

Lan said, "Boe!” laughing. He looked
at Kit for admiration. She said impatiently,
“But if they aren’t real — that man in Cleve-
land—”

“The cork,” said Tom, tiredly, “could
become real to a fish if it tried to pull some-
thing out of the water. As it pulled some-
thing into the air some of it would be pulled
into the water. They pulled a man into their
cosmos. So some of their globe was pulled
into ours.”

“But — but — ” Kit said uneasily. “Why’d
they do it?”

“Tom’s idea, and mine,” said McGuire,
“is to ask them, since the Government says
I’m crazy. Tom encountered one of their
globes three months ago near Mars. Maybe
the ghost planet was on the way and that
was an advance scout.

“Or maybe it was an exploring vessel and
the ghost planet came when it reported a
civilization here. Maybe it came to be a base
for a really thorough examination of our
solar system and our civilization for what-
ever it is that they want.”

“But what is it?” demanded Kit.

Her father shrugged. “They haven’t
found it, certainly. Today they took that
poor devil from Cleveland. Maybe they mean
to ask him where it is.”

“Took him—”

“Tom spent all night,” said McGuire,
“trying to work out a gadget to put some
matter from this cosmos into that or into the
borderline state at any rate. If we could do
that we could communicate with them or, if
necessary, even fight them.”

Tom said gloomily, “But it can’t be done
— obviously. I see now. The amount of

THE GHOST PLANET

energy and matter in any cosmos is fixed by
definition. It can’t be varied. So to put
something from this cosmos into another,
whether it’s energy or matter, an exactly
equivalent amount of matter must pass from
that cosmos into this. It has to be — ”

He stopped short, his mouth open as if in
amazement.

“That’s it!” He swung to McGuire. “Of
course ! Can you get hold of a space-ship ?
Any size! Anything! We can do it.”

But Lan leaned forward gracefully. “Look,
Tom. You’re suggesting that by pulling a
part of another cosmos into this, you can
pull a part of this cosmos into that. You
spoke of an analogy to pulling a cork down
into water by making it pull a fish out of
water. But don’t you see that on an atomic
or molecular scale such an arrangement
would be unstable ? They’d tend to pop back
into their own space.”

T OM shrugged. He was about to say
that the ghost-ship had managed it in
Cleveland.

But Lan went on gently, “Really, Tom,
before you demand that Mr. McGuire get
hold of space-ships and such things — don’t
you think you should — well — consider the
facts ? After all, Mr. McGuire has so much
more experience than you have and is so
much better qualified in every way,
that — well — your theories are interesting
enough — ”

McGuire said sharply, “Your friend has
some theories, at any rate. Have you any
to offer?”

“Kit asked me to come here, sir,” said
Lan brightly, “to do technical work. Lab
work. I’ve been ready to get to work at any
instant, sir. But I wouldn’t presume to make
suggestions.”

McGuire stared at him. Then he said
shortly, “Let Kit brief you, then, and see if
you can come up with some contributions
to equal your friend’s. This isn’t a ceremony.
It’s an emergency, with a pack of politicians
too busy thinking of politics to see what
they’re up against!”

Kit said eagerly, “You see, Lan, Father
feels — ”

“I know how I feel!” said McGuire an-
grily. “You’re loyal, Kit, but I’m not think-
ing of the Ghost Planet as a matter with
political implications ! When there were dif-
ferent nations on earth there was a loyalty
called patriotism. Now that there’s a world

27

government, there’s still room for a similar
feeling !

“I think the Ghost Planet represents a
possible danger. What happened in Cleve-
land just now is evidence for that view. But
I’m sure that the Ghost Planet has the secret
of the answer to the most desperate need of
humanity.

“So as a private citizen I think it’s up to
me to try to find that out ! I think it’s up to
Lan and Tom and everybody else! And if
Lan will play less attention to the possibilities
of being flatteringly respectful to me and try
to suggest something useful I’ll like it bet-
ter !”

He strode angrily from the room. Lan
flushed hotly and looked at Kit. “I’m not
very popular with your father,” he said re-
sentfully.

“Don’t be silly!” said Kit. “Because
you’re engaged to me you feel awkward with
him. He won’t bite you, Lan! Talk things
over with Tom and work out something!
That’ll please him!”

“But it’s ridiculous!” protested Lan.
“There’s bound to be organized research
done ! What can one or two or three people,
working alone, do with problems that call
for full scale planned investigation?”

Tom said nothing. He was at once very
weary and very much absorbed in the new
idea that had occurred to him.

“And he talks in riddles!” said Lan in-
dignantly. “If it’s a ghost planet with ghost
space-ships why — he seems to agree with
Tom that they can’t do anything! And as
for having a secret solving the most desper-
ate need of humanity — ”

Tom said abstractedly, “Interstellar travel,
Lan. We’ve been to all our own planets and
not one will support a colony. Earth’s getting
overcrowded. And our interplanetary drive
wouldn’t begin to reach even Proxima Cen-
tauri, even if we could live long enough to
get there.

“The Ghost Planet came from beyond our
system. They’ve a drive that will take a
planet from one star to another. If we had
it we could hunt out planets to colonize.
There are plenty if we could reach them. And
Earth would be a better place.”

Kit said urgently, “There! That’s it, Lan!
Work out a drive that would serve for inter-
stellar travel — after this affair is done with !”

Tom got up. “I’ve got to get back to work
on a new angle. With a space-ship, even a
little one, I think we could handle things.”

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

28

The vision receiver was barking a news
announcement as he left the room. The an-
nouncement was that a sphere was headed
back toward the shimmering Ghost Planet
— but “comet” was the word still used — and
that it was much denser than any other that
had been observed.

It was assumed to be the globe which had
snatched a citizen from Lincoln Square in
Cleveland and increased markedly in density
while doing so. Moreover, several other
extra-dense globes had risen from earth and
were assumed to be heading back in the same
direction.

At the very end of the news broadcast, an
official announcement from the government
public information service was read. It stated
that Government scientists were actively in-
vestigating the comet and that the public
should not be alarmed. There was absolutely
no evidence — said the release — to support
any idea that either the comet or the mist
globes were hitherto unknown forms of life
or that the globes were likely to prey on
humanity.

The release was very comfortingly
phrased, but it was a mistake. Few people,
if any, had heard any rumor suggesting that
the ghost globes were creatures which might
eat men. The information release spread the
suggestion on world wide newcasts. It sent
a wave of hysteria around an overcrowded,
overemotional earth.

CHAPTER V
Uproar

A HUNDRED years of peace and pre-
ventive medicine had sent Earth’s
population soaring. From two billion people
in the early twentieth century it was now
eight and a quarter billion. In a world-wide
culture of high development there could be
neither plagues nor wars to ease the pressure.
But the pressure was enormous.

The Guilds arose to meet it — grim as-
sociations of individuals, at once unions and
fraternal organizations, which watched jeal-
ously over the rights of their members and
helped them by cooperative housing and
merchandising activities to meet the in-
creasingly desperate pressure of overcrowd-
ing.

But no organization could meet the actual
situation, which was that of ancient China,
static for two thousand years from the same
insensate pressure of population. All Earth
faced the prospect of a frantically struggling
stasis with no hope because there could be
no escape.

Men like McGuire saw the situation as
desperate, and were howled down because
they wanted to throw all the resources of the
world behind an all-out attack on the means
of emigration to the stars. It would be in-
finitely costly and taxes were already too
high — demands for ever-greater government
services were unending.

Even now the government regulated de-
tails of life that before had been strictly
personal decisions. A vast straining electorate
demanded the impossible and denied the
only means for ultimate relief because they
required immediate sacrifices.

An enormous emotionalism had developed,
which was channeled by skilful political
propaganda. But the tensions of merely
securing a livelihood made Earth a place in
which almost anything in the way of mass
hysteria could happen at almost any instant,
simply, because ninety -nine percent of all
human beings had been forced not to think
beyond the stress of today and now.

So Tom Drake went back into McGuire’s
laboratory and worked and worked and
worked. He had begun to think about the
ghost spheres because he’d encountered one
and it had caused him personal disaster.

When the Ghost Planet appeared, and Kit
had called for the two of them — Lan and
himself — to come out to the Coast for work
on the problem it presented, he’d first
thought of it as a matter of scientific interest.

But now that Lan’s peevish indignation
had made him realize what McGuire saw in
the coming of the Ghost Planet, he worked
with an enthusiasm which ignored the
possibility of fatigue.

If the Ghost Planet had the secret of in-
terstellar travel — and it must — then the
problem was not that of meeting a danger,
but of the whole future of humanity. As
such, it was worth much more than all he
could do. It was worth all that everybody
in the world could do.

McGuire listened to his new plans. He
nodded and vanished from the house. Tom
racked his brains for remembered data and
dug into McGuire’s technical library for
further information and then sweated over

THE GHOST PLANET

the construction of a pilot model of a small
device. He could go no further until McGuire
turned up with something for which a larger
device could be designed.

It was dusk and he was numb with mental
and physical fatigue when the air throbbed
heavily about the building. Then there was a
deep moaning noise and the ground trembled
— and then the whole disturbance stopped
with a startling suddenness.

McGuire came into the laboratory. “I got
— of all things — the W aldington,” he re-
ported. “The Titan Expedition sent it back
again and asked to be relieved. They were
seeing ghosts and the whole outfit solemnly
decided it needed psychiatric treatment.”

He grinned ironically. “They’ve sent off
relief ships, which will not investigate the
Ghost Planet, to bring back the whole crowd.
And they started to liquidate the equipment.
T got the W eddington."

“The ghosts were thousand-foot spheres?”
asked Tom, tiredly.

McGuire nodded.

“T can handle it in a pinch,” Tom told him.
“The Weddington, that is. Take a look at
what I’ve got here. It works as far as I can
tell. It'll do to make a bigger one from. It’s
such old stuff T wasn't sure I could make a
generator. But I did.”

He showed McGuire the device. It was a
trigger-energy field generator, a development
from the electrets of ancient days which
stored a bound charge of electricity in a mix-
ture of waxes so that it could not be short
circuited and could only be released by the
melting of the electret wax.

The trigger-energy field stored latent
energy in the molecules of any substance at
all. Stored, it remained only latent until
released by special conditions, when it
usually appeared as heat. There was a time
when there were great hopes of using it for
metal-casting.

Sufficient latent energy for the melting of
a billet of metal could be stored in the metal,
and the metal remained cold and could be
handled in any way as long as the latent —
trigger — energy remained bound.

B UT when it was released the metal
melted from its own stored trigger-
energy. Inability to control the temperature
the melted metal would reach had made it
impractical for casting and it had never had
an actual industrial application.

“The point is,” Tom told McGuire,” that

29

borderline matter or stuff on the thin edge of
being real can penetrate our matter without
being disturbed. A plane flew through that
globe over the polo field and nothing hap-
pened.

“But if the plane had been charged up
with trigger-energy as its charged molecules
encountered the uncharged molecules of
ghost matter they’d have to discharge. The
latent energy would go to the ghost matter
molecules.

“But since energy can’t leave this comos
the ghost matter molecules would come into
our space and become real — and since matter
can only enter our cosmos if other matter
leaves it the discharged molecules would go
into the other cosmos.

“In other words I think a plane charged
with trigger-energy flying into a globe would
turn to ghost matter and an exactly equal
amount of ghost-matter would turn real,
atom for' atom and molecule for molecule.
Here’s the math.”

McGuire checked carefully, and then
began to pace up and down the laboratory.
“It looks right,” hi; said. He said uneasily,
“If the Government got hold of this, there’d
be atomic bombs charged with trigger-energy.
Dropped on the Ghost Planet they’d become
that other kind of matter and explode there.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Tom, “They could
do the same to us. We’re ghosts to them as
they’re ghosts to us.”

“I’ve got to think,” said McGuire abrupt-

] y-

“I,” admitted Tom, “could do with some
sleep.”

He went out, stumbling a little, and had to
ask a servant where he was supposed to
sleep. On the way he saw Lan and Kit. They
were walking together in the garden and
Lan was in the middle of some enthusiastic
explanation.

He was immaculate and the sunlight
glinted on his hair. He made a graceful
gesture and put his hand on Kit’s shoulder.
She looked up at him and smiled and then
saw Tom.

“How’s it going, Tom?” She called
eagerly.

“Got some stuff designed,” said Tom and
yawned. “Your father’s working on it now.”

He went on wearily to the quarters as-
signed to him and to Lan together. He saw
himself in a mirror His clothes were wilted
and rumpled, his hair hopelessly uncombed.
His eyes were red from strain and altogether

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

30

he was not a pretty sight. Compared to
Lan — He surveyed himself for a moment.

“Oh, the heck with it!” he growled. He
lay down and was instantly asleep.

The newscasters had a busy evening, while
he slept. There were interviews with eye-
witnesses of the Cleveland seizure of Arthur
V. Handmetter and a broadcast of astro-
nomical motion-pictures of the Ghost Planet.
There were reenactments of a seizure or kid-
napping in Chungking.

There were announcements by the heads
of the official Government astronomical re-
search project, who managed to put into their
discussions of the “comet” — they carefully
said nothing significant — plugs for more
money for their staffs and equipment. Es-
sentially, these officials said that the “comet”
was simply gas in so attenuated a form that
if it were condensed to the thickness of air
at sea level on Earth it would all go into a
two-quart bottle.

But there was a tight-beam vision cast
from the Moon observatory which confirmed
the fact that a steady stream of thousand-
foot globes of mist moved from the “comet”

the Ghost Planet — to Earth and back

again.

And it confirmed, too, the fact that seven
returning globes were enormously more
dense than any globes leaving the “comet”
for Earth, as if they had somehow absorbed
or eaten some substance on Earth.

Since at least two humans were known to
have been carried away from large cities, it
was reasonable to assume that five other
isolated individuals might have been taken
away without any eyewitnesses.

Then an eminent psychiatrist appeared on
the screen and beamed at his audience, and
jovially assured them that mass illusions
were commonplace. He listed examples going
all the way back to the sworn statements of
crowds that they had seen witches riding on
broomsticks.

He instanced a craze of flying disks, whose
appearance was sworn to by wholly credible
witnesses and he referred humorously to the
craze of a few years before. Then a meteor
shower had been been interpreted as the ar-
rival of a flight of space-ships from some-
where and for months afterward honest men
and women reported seeing stilt-legged green
men in various unlikely places. But all were
illusions.

“Illusion is a form of catharsis,” said the
psychiatrist reassuringly, “We objectify our

fears. We picture them outside of ourselves
and so consider that we get rid of them. I
do not doubt that people in Chungking and
Cleveland believe they saw everything they
report. I merely say that mass suggestibility
makes it possible for a large number of
people to share a common illusion.”

Human beings being what they are and
psychiatry being a very obscure science,
this vision cast tended to reassure every-
body who did not stop to reflect that vision
cast screens portrayed the globes and the
Ghost Planet and that illusions which affect
electronic devices are not illusions.

But the newscast went on to show one of
the world’s most glamorous actresses at a
famous resort where she was honeymooning
with her seventh husband. There was an
appealing sequence of a small white dog
lying on his master’s grave with the ex-
planation that he refused to leave it.

There was a picture of an important
political figure leaving the World White
House. A festival of flowers in Rio. The
coming of the puffins to Greenland. A minor
eruption of a volcano in the Galapagos.

I N SHORT the matter of the Ghost
Planet was honestly presented as the big
news feature of the day and then was deftly
played down. Ex-President McGuire’s
broadcast of the night before, assuring the
public that there was real information
available about the Ghost Planet, was not re-
ferred to at all.

Kit was angered by that. She told Lan in-
dignantly that her father’s political enemies
were refusing him a hearing for fear that the
disclosure of his rightness and their wrong-
ness would cause a political repercussion.

“Oh, of course,” said Lan sagely. “My
Guild was opposed to him, you know. I was
suspended, really, because I’m engaged to
you. That’s why I can’t get a job.”

Kit regarded him with warm admiration
for his martyrdom. “You’ll show them!”
she said vengefully. “When you show them
what you can do.”

Then Lan told her tenderly that she filled
all his mind and it was hard to think of any-
thing but her. But he did have the beginning
of an idea for an interstellar drive. It would
probably take some months of research to
develop it and he could not put his whole
mind on it while fearing that something
might happen to break their engagement.
But then he began to picture the idyllic

THE GHOST PLANET

situation which would arise if they were mar-
ried even if it were an elopement — and he
carried on his research with her to isspire
him to brilliance. He did not mention the
fact that, as he had no job, their support as
well as the financing of his research would
have to be at her father’s charge.

That was left for Kit to resolve upon for
herself. Lan grew lyrical about the genius
which would come to him immediately they
were married. It appeared that, in sheer
dutifulness to her father, she should elope
with Lan immediately.

When Tom awoke next morning, McGuire
was grimly at work in his laboratory. The
model trigger-energy field generator had
been a necessary preliminary to later work,
because trigger-energy had no regular
practical use and few physicists had ever
seen a generator of the field.

McGuire had studied it and spent the night
in grim and somewhat clumsy labor upon a
much larger one. When Tom examined it
he realized that sound engineering had made
up for lack of dexterity. This generator
might be the largest that had ever been built
and undoubtedly it would work.

“I asked your friend Lan to help me in-
stall this,” said McGuire savagely, “and he
explained very plausibly that Kit had asked
him to go in to Pasadena with her and said
regretfully that he would ask her to excuse
him. He didn’t have the least idea what this
was !”

Tom said, “It’s pretty old-fashioned, sir.
I remembered it because I’m always digging
in outdated textbooks. There's fascinating
stuff in them. 1 suspect there are a lot of
useful leads in forgotten facts that simply
weren’t followed up when they were first
discovered.”

McGuire grunted. “Nevertheless, your
friend is simply planning a career as my son-
in-law. That's all ! Shall we install this on
the ship?”

Tom postponed breakfast to get at it.
Presently the two of them staggered out of
the laboratory to the W eddington with their
load. The little emergency-ship was small
enough and clumsy enough and ugly enough
to have no attraction for a wealthy amateur
who wanted to do space flying for a thrill.
That was why McGuire had been able to get
hold of it. The job of the moment wasn’t
glamorous either.

There were some people — probably Lan
among them — who would have been startled

31

to see a former chief executive of the World
Government helping to carry out a weighty
clumsy device and working with grunts and
heavings to get it into place against an un-
gainly small ship’s nose, then sweating as he
worked a welder — sometimes he merely held
the braces in place while Tom welded them
— to fasten it on.

McGuire, sweat-streaked and dirty, was
making the last electric connections when
the ground-car came whizzing up the drive
and stopped with a squealing of brakes. Kit
was very pale. Lan looked at once uneasy
and excited — but more uneasy.

“Something’s happening in Pasadena,” he
said, and gulped. “There are four globes
there. One of them’s squatted over the
General Hospital, There are three others
linked to it. All four are getting denser by
the minute. As if” — he gulped — “as if they
were eating the people inside.”

Kit got out of the car. Her knees wobbled.
“I — made Lan come back,” she whispered.
“They’re — eating the people. Lan says so.”
McGuire painstakingly climbed down the
ladder. He threw it aside. Tom was in the
act of wrenching open the entrance port of
the W eddington. He climbed inside. Mc-
Guire followed. A deep droning noise
sounded, so deep and so heavy that it seemed
to shake the very ground. Then there
sounded a throbbing noise and the W edding-
ton moved straight up. But as it rose it
hejded toward Pasadena.

CHAPTER VI
Panic in Pasadena

T HERE was ungodly panic in Pasadena.

It was ten A. M., a time when shopping
would hardly have begun and the industries
of the cities should have emptied the streets
of men. But as the W eddington came clum-
sily toward the city its ways were black with
fleeing humanity.

For once the moving sidewalks were so
crowded that passengers were edged oflF,
reeling, into the throngs which fought to
get on. Ground vehicles — trucks and com-
mercial vehicles almost exclusively — 'blared
and roared their sirens among crowds afoot
which had overflowed into the vehicular
ways. All of Pasadena struggled furiously to

32 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

get from where it was to somewhere else.
Mostly, to be sure, men battled to reach
their families and mothers ran desperately
to the schools- to relieve their children.

From aloft, it seemed that the streets
simply boiled with black figures, eddying
purposelessly, and that only relatively small
streams of fugitives trickled from the streets
at the edges of the city and fled for the open
country.

The buildings of the city were unchanged.
The tall block-shaped structures which alone
were economical enough to build for rental
to any but the rich stood serene. Untroubled
small wisps of steam drifted from their tops
in the morning sunlight.

But there was one oddity which accounted
for everything that was strange among the
people. Above a group of buildings set in
green lawns an alien and frightening ap-
pearance hung. At first, from the Wexlding-
ton, Tom Drake saw only the top three
monstrous globes. They were smoky. They
looked thick. But they did not yet look solid.

Touching each other as the upper part of a
colossal inverted pyramid, they also touched
a fourth globe which touched the ground.
Buildings vanished into its dark murkiness.
It enclosed the major part of the town’s
principal hospital.

The Weddington flew clumsily, like a
wingless beetle, making a monstrous throb-
bing in the air. It wabbled in its flight. It
fishtailed and seemed sometimes to progress
crabwise. It was not designed for flight in
atmosphere and the new excresence on its
bow ruined what streamlining it may have
had. It was hopelessly unhandy in the air.
But it flew toward Pasadena and wallowed to
a lower level and went droning heavily to-
ward the fifteen-hundred-foot pile of smoky
spheres.

It blundered into the first of them. All
four were growing momentarily thicker and
less transparent but still the W eddington —
by the precedent of planes which had flown
through other spheres — should have pene-
trated it without difficulty.

It did penetrate. But there was a mark
where it struck. An instant later it bounced
out crazily at an angle to its original course,
spinning like a top and making lunatic darts
in every direction successively. It had en-
countered resistance.

It was two thousand feet up and still
gyrating unpredictably when Tom crawled
back to the control seat. He had been thrown

furiously to one side when the ship hit a
spongy obstacle. There was a cut on his
temple which bled messily down his cheek.
McGuire held fast to stanchions beside a
vision port and stared out.

“Lucky !” panted Tom. “I just put a trace
of power in the trigger-field. If I’d given it
full power we’d have been wrecked. Why
can’t I have sense? We were trying to make
it solid ahead of us! Ahead!”

He straightened out the W eddington with
the gyros. He swung in midair and dived
again.

“This time,” he panted,” we’ll hurt them !
I don’t know how badly, but we’ll hurt ! The
thing’s working ! We charge up air with
trigger-energy. When it hits ghost matter,
it substitutes — air for metal, most likely.

“Since it’s a matter of mass, that makes
a vacuum which draws more trigger-charged
air to substitute for more ghost metal.
Hitting it head on was like trying to push a
boat through water its bow turns to ice.
This time, though — ”

He leveled the W eddington out. He shot
at the chosen globe. The clumsy space-craft
throbbed and roared. A hundred yards from
it, Tom’s fingers moved like lightning. The
throbbing ceased instantly. The W eddington
began to arch downward. And then it spun
upon its own axis in midair, turned end for
end and vanished into the murky globe back-
ward.

“We’ll leave solid stuff behind us now!”
gasped Tom. “Hold fast!”

For seconds the little craft plunged
through darkness. The globes were dark as
black smoke. There was nothing at all to be
seen. Then there was light, and Tom’s
fingers flashed again, and the Weddington
climbed frantically for the sky, precariously
close to the tops of buildings rearing up
beyond the hospital.

McGuire said in deep satisfaction, “Nicked
him ! Not bad at all !”

The spots where the Weddington had
dived into and left the globe were plainly
visible. The trigger-energy field had trailed
behind the ship, this time, as it shot through
the ghost-globe. And this time Tom had put
full power into the field. Borderline matter
materialized as matter of this cosmos and
air — only air — replaced it in the universe of
the ghost-ships.

I RREGULARLY shaped slabs of solid
stuff, - exchanged for thin air, became

THE GHOST PLANET

quite real in this universe and fell crashing
through the unsubstantiality of which it had
been a part. A complete tunnel of clear air
led through the globe where the W eddington
had pierced it. Because what had been ghost
stuff had become real, and no ghost metal but
only ghost air had replaced it.

“That’ll be a wallop!” said Tom as the
little ship climbed. “A few more punctures
and they’ll know they’re hurt!”

He reached the top of the necessary climb
and dived again. But as the W eddington went
roaring downward for further battle, the
sphere at which he aimed shot skyward. It
was very dense now. Certainly human
beings, and possibly other matter of this
earth had gone nearer to the borderline of
ghostliness.

Patients had become partly unreal. As a
necessary consequence the four globes had
become very slightly real. And they were
vulnerable to the Weddington. The clumsy
little ship was a' deadly weapon to them —
though only where there was atmosphere or
other substance to trade for the matter of
the ghost ships’ hulls.

One fled. A second detached itself from
the others and shot up for the heavens. Tom
swerved the W eddington — dived more steep-
ly — and the third of the upper globes fled
before it.

Then, from openings in the hull of the re-
maining murky mass, small murky objects
shot out. They soared away, and were sud-
denly snatched by invisible forces and drawn
with enormous acceleration after the three
fleeing ships.

L ATER Tom and McGuire agreed that
these smaller objects were crew mem-
bers of the crippled ghost vessel. It was still a
ghost. It was still not more dense than dense
black smoke and it still enclosed a major part
of the hospital.

Possibly, in their dive through it, the two
men had damaged some essential control or
drive mechanism. And Tom guessed that the
crew which dived out of the crippled vessel
had been snatched by tractor beams in the
escaping ships.

But at the moment that did not matter.
One ghost ship, dark and well on the way
to reality yet still penetrable by normal
matter, remained huddled over the hospital
building. The raid — if it was a raid — had
been at least partly frustrated. But the
Weddington had been wrongly equipped

33

when the trigger-energy generator was
mounted on its bow.

There were other things to be done. Tom
headed it back toward its starting place while
he and McGuire canvassed the situation as
of the moment. McGuire was very hopeful.
It was Tom who was the gloomy one.

“I don’t think much can be learned from
the ship that was left behind.” he said cyni-
cally. “If I know the sort of people who’ll
be in charge in Pasadena you’d have to spend
hours getting permission to try to examine
it.

“And if I were abandoning a ship in the
middle of an alien civilization I think I’d
see to it that nothing very informative was
left behind. Besides, we’d crippled it any-
how. And” — he paused — “The politicos
won’t like your being a hero. Not after you
lost the last election.”

McGuire swore a little. “That’s right. . I
mustn’t be allowed to do anything credit-
able,” he said wrathfully. “But what we
know has to be passed on and fast!”

Tom said nothing. He aimed for the
rambling, gracious house in its roomy
grounds, a mile below and five miles away.

“Shells charged with trigger-energy and
fired at the spheres,” he observed, “will
damage the globes. The shells will change to
ghost-matter as the}- hit and make ghostly
explosions, which are the only kind that will
do any good. There’s a defense of sorts
against the globes.

“But it’s not likely it would bring down a
globe in any sort of shape that we could
examine. We can’t copy machinery made of
smoke — and very thin smoke at that ! And
of course, if they want to, the Ghost-Planet
people can turn the same trick against us.
It’s bad.”

The throbbing, moaning noise the We>d-
dington’s space drive made in atmosphere
changed a little. The ship went wallowing
down for a landing.

“We’ve got to turn over the fact that shells
can be made effective,” said Tom, frown-
ing,” and there’s the fact that the patients in
that hospital will be in a queer state. They’re
partly real and partly not.

“We can make them wholly real with
trigger-energy charges, but they’ve got to be
careful not to get that energy released until
the charged molecules are gotten rid of by
natural metabolism.”

McGuire had lost his elation. He said
gloomily, “I know what will happen. The

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

34

Government will start building spaceships.
They’ll drag them out of museums, and
start equipping them with guns. They’ll think
only in terms of war.”

“Naturally,” agreed Tom. "And those
people have a space drive we heed. That
we’ve got to have !”

"Anything we can do to them they can
do back to us, with probably thousands of
ships to start with ! They didn’t expect
trouble back yonder. They could wreck
Earth in a week!”

Tom grunted. He was landing the Wed-
dington. It was a ticklish job. The space-
boat had just about the maneuverability of a
washtub in atmosphere. There was a heavy
thud and he cut off the drive. When they
climbed down, dispiritedly, they did not look
like two men who had struck the first blow
to prove that Earth was not helpless against
immaterial invaders.

Kit searched her father’s face. She seemed
to grow paler at his expression of dis-
couragement.

“Father! What happened?”

“We drove them off,” said McGuire
bitterly,” and we disabled one of their ships
and I suspect we started a war. It’s a mess !
And now I’ve got to send word to Pasadena
how to get those hospital patients back to
something like normal. Tom, will that little
generator you made first fix up those
patients ?”

“Yes, sir.”

McGuire went into the house. Tom
gloomily examined the field generator on the
Weddington’s bow. It had to be shifted to
the stern. It could be cut loose and rewelded
but he was filled with forebodings — particu-
larly because he already foresaw the only
possible thing to do.

"I wish,” he said, “one could be as smart
as the heroes of the history books ! They
always know just how everything has to be
done from the beginning and never have to
do anything over.”

Kit repeated, “But what did you do?”

Tom told her. Lan Hardy listened un-
happily.

“And your father,” said Tom,” is going
to pass on what he knows. The Administra-
tion will waste time trying to figure out how
to keep him from getting any credit for it
but at least there’s a defense now that they’ve
started kidnaping citizens.”

Lan said suddenly, “You mean, charging
ghost matter with trigger-energy makes it

real? Just use a generator on the patients
and they’ll get back to normal? And just do
the same to the ship and it can be ex-
amined ?”

"Kit’s father is getting out the small
generator now,” said Tom. “We’ll have to
send it over to town, with instructions. But
I’ve got to get this big generator shifted.”

Lan went briskly into the house. Kit said,
with shining eyes, “Then we don’t have to
worry about the spheres any more and my
father’ll be credited with being right.”

"We do have to worry,” growled Tom,
"and he’ll be given credit only over a pack of
dead politicians. We have to worry about
the spheres because it’s pretty clear that
they know that what they want is here. It
could be simply — well — human beings.

“I can’t guess why they’d want them but
that’s all they’ve taken that we know of.
And now they know they’ll have to fight to
get them and they should have all the edge in
a war. If we hadn’t seemed so helpless they
should have been able to smash the W ed-
dington like a fly. They just didn’t expect
an attack.”

Lan came out of the house again. He
looked at once enormously elated and oddly
furtive. He carried the small trigger-energy
generator and smiled significantly at Kit.

“Come along, Kit. We’re going back to
Pasadena. I’m taking this to fix up the
hospital patients and start examining the
ship. We’ll have to hurry.”

Kit hesitated, looking at Lan with a
peculiar intentness.

“Come along,” repeated Lan. “We — ”
he spoke with the tone of one speaking of a
matter understood only by a special person,
in this case Kit — “we didn’t attend to what
we went for anyhow. We’ll fix that up and
start up the business of defending Earth
against whatever the globes are.”

Tom said abstractedly, “Get the patients
out of the globe. It’ll be rather odd if our
friends don’t come back and retrieve the ship
they left behind. They’ll come loaded for
bear too.”

“I thought of that,” said Lan rather
jerkily. “I’ll attend to it. Come on, Kit!”

Kit hesitated. Lan put his hand on her
shoulder, urgently. Tom looked at him. Kit
flushed a little.

"I’ll stay here,” she said, inexplicably
seeming to be ashamed. “There’s more than
just — ”

“Look!” said Lan persuasively. “The

THE GHOST PLANET

globes eat people. They’re animals! We
want to get a defense started against them,
besides — that other matter. You’re hold-
ing things up. ”

“They’re not animals,” said Tom curtly.
"Why the devil do you insist on believing
what the most respectable authorities say,
without trying to help us prove the facts?”
Lan ignored him. He caught Kit’s arm
and sought to lead her to the groundcar. He
bent to whisper in her ear. She broke free.

"I’m staying!” she said unsteadily. “This
is important, Lan. This is more important
than anything else ! ”

“How can you say that?” he demanded
dramatically. “Kit — ”

McGuire came out of the house. “Not
gone yet?” he asked. "I called the Mayor’s
office. He’s not as big a fool as most. He’s
waiting for you, Lan. I’ll tell him you’re on
the way and to have a police escort to get
you to him in a hurry.”

He frowned. Lan dropped Kit’s arm and
moved hastily to the groundcar. But he
paused once more.

“Aren’t you coming, Kit?”

She shook her head, surprisingly pale. He
started the car and turned it around. He
hesitated, as if for her to change her mind,
and she did not. He went away toward the
highway.

"I cleared that first,” rumbled McGuire,
“and told Lan a few facts. I wish he had
more brains! Right now I’m getting a link-
age to a few competent physicists. I’m going
to pass on just what we did and why, Tom,
and what results we got. Get the facts spread
as widely as possible as soon as possible.
You know what we’ve got to do if there isn’t
to be a war?”

“I suspect I do,” said Tom, wrily. “Noth-
ing else can possibly turn the trick. Maybe
we’ll need more fuel though.”

McGuire nodded approvingly. “That, and
maybe a few other tricks. You’re going to
cut that gadget free and mount it on the
tail?”

CHAPTER VII
The Double Cross

H E DID not wait for an answer. He
disappeared. Tom began painstakingly

35

to reassemble the scaffolding he and McGuire
had made to set the field generator on the
bow of the W eddington. Kit watched him.

Presently she said in a subdued voice,
"Tom—”

He bolted a plank in place. “Yeah?”

"Lan and I — we — we went to Pasadena to
get married,” said Kit. "We almost did.”

Tom did not indicate any surprise what-
ever. He continued to assemble planks for
the scaffolding which would hold the gener-
ator while he cut it free and again while he
rewelded it on the other end of the W ed-
dington.

“Why don’t you say something?” asked
Kit nervously.

"It’s none of my business,” said Tom
briefly.

“Do you — think we should?” she asked
uncertainly.

“Why?” he asked reasonably. “You’re
engaged. Your father is resigned if not en-
thusiastic. Why sneak off?”

“Lan said my father doesn’t like him.”

“Lan’s been a good friend to me,” said
Tom shortly. "He has his good points and
his faults. If your father doesn’t like him he
certainly won’t like him better for ducking
out on an important job.”

Kit was silent for a long time. Then she
said hesitantly, “Do you think he’s clever,
Tom?”

"If you’re expecting me to play John
Alden on his behalf,” said Tom shortly, "I
won’t! If you expect me to malign him so
you can get up nerve by growing indignant
with me I won’t do that either. It’s your
business, not mine!”

There was a long silence, while the
scaffold grew. Then Kit said unhappily, "I
thought he was wonderful until I, until I saw
him turn pale when he realized we were
close to those globes at the hospital. We
started to drive right past them on the way
to the marriage license bureau. But he was
scared. He trembled ! And you and Father
went to fight them !”

Tom said curtly, “Tm going to cut this
loose, now. Will you hand me up that
torch ?”

She obeyed meekly. He began to cut
away the so-recently-welded struts which had
held the generator to the nose of the lumpy
little space-ship. Kit watched, fidgeting.

“What are you and Dad going to do
now?”

“Open negotiations with the spooks, I

36 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

suspect,” said Tom, drily. “They didn’t
bother asking us questions. They just looked
us over. Maybe the people they snatched
away were taken away somewhere for a bit
of questioning.

“But we didn’t ask questions when we
smashed one of their ships. It looks like
time for a little conversation before we start
trying to kill them or they — more likely —
wipe us all out.”

“But do you think — ”

“If I were boss on the Ghost Planet,” said
Tom,” I’d have every spare ship over Pasa-
dena as fast as I could get it there and I'd
retrieve that wreck before it was examined
too closely. And if I’d tracked the Wedding-
ton home by telescopes from beyond the
atmosphere I’d have a flock of fighting ships
over this particular spot as soon as I could
manage it.

“That’s why your father’s passing on
what he knows as fast as he can. And that’s
why I neither approve or disapprove of your
going to Pasadena with Lan. One place is
just as safe or just as dangerous as the
other. ”

The last strut came free. Tom climbed
down, climbed in the ship, backed away from
the scaffold, swung the ship about on the
ground by means of its gyros and delicately
backed it into place again.

He got out.

“Not bad,” he observed. “I can patch it
fast enough.”

He climbed up again on the scaffold. Kit
saw his eyes measuring and looked among
the scraps left over from the original job.
She passed one up to him.

“Thanks,” he said. “Just about right.”

“Tom!” she said after a long silence.
“Will you advise me about Lan? Please
doit!”

He shook his head to clear sweat from his
forehead. The welding torch gave off a lot
of heat.

“As long as you’re engaged to Lan,” he
told her, “I tell you nothing. It’s your
funeral or your wedding.”

He worked. From time to time she
handed up a bit of metal which was either a
near fit or could be cut down. He finished
the job and began to resplice the cables while
she watched.

He was just about finished when McGuire
appeared at the side of the house and called
grimly :

“Kit! Tom! Come in here, please! I want

you to hear a broadcast. Lan’s made his
report and he’s a hero.”

T OM brushed off his hands and went in-
side.

McGuire said sourly, “I heard the bells of
an extra-emergency ’cast. Lan made his re-
port and evidently demonstrated on the
disabled sphere. He’s coming on the screen
in a minute.”

Kit went a trifle pale. Somehow, she did
not look like a girl about to hear the man
she was to marry in a public and heroic part.
An unctious voice said blandly, “. . . with the
unprecented speed with which the present
administration knows how to act in emergen-
cies, Lan Hardy’s report and demonstration
was transmitted to the highest levels on the
heels of the report of the events at Pasadena.

“Acting under emergency powers the
World President has ordered every available
factory to produce trigger-energy generators
at the highest possible speed. Meteorological
service guided rockets are being prepared to
become bombs against the mist-spheres as
soon as the necessary generators can charge
them for conversion as they will act against
these extraordinary animals.”

“Animals !” said Tom blankly. “But if he
worked the thing on that ship he sazv it turn
into metal ! They’re ships !”

“Within hours,” the announcer’s voice
assured them, blandly, “all Earth will be
equipped with defenses against these strange
forms of life from outer space. Moreover,
every space-ship able to take to space will
be crammed with atomic explosives.

“Within days guided missiles will be deto-
nated within the misty comet — evidently the
parent organism — creating such a terrific
explosion within its heart that it will be
blown to atoms. Atomic explosives in thou-
sands of tons will shatter the comet in a
blast so intense that the human mind cannot
conceive of it.”

Tom and McGuire stared at each other.
“I,” said McGuire, “told the government
that it was a planet and the spheres were
ships. But if I am right somebody may not
get reelected. So it has to be an animal and
it has to be destroyed — and the chance
of our getting a space drive is gone forever !”
His voice held the quintessence of bitter-
ness.

“Here is Lan Hardy,” said the announcer
proudly. “He will tell you of his discovery
and its fruits.”

THE GHOST PLANET 37

Lan’s face appeared on the vision screen.
He was brightly, happily at ease.

“I was very fortunate,” he said modestly.
"The strange type of matter the invading
life forms comprise seemed to be unaffected
by any force or matter at our disposal. But
it occurred to me that trigger-energy might
have an effect and I tried it in a hastily im-
provised form.

“I am very happy that I have been able to
offer to my fellow citizens a defense against
creatures beyond our experience and plainly
dangerous to Earth. I am more relieved
than anybody else and more grateful for the
idea, because I saw the Earth as a hunting
ground for unspeakable intangible monsters,
who could devour human beings while we
were helpess to take any action against
them.”

H E SMILED, very appealingly. He
made a graceful wave of his hand. He
faded from the screen.

"Lan Hardy,” boomed the announcer, "by
special Presidential order, is in full charge of
the defense against the creatures which have
begun to attack the people of Earth.”

Kit struck off the switch which kept the
vision plate alight.

She faced the others, stammering and
dazed.

“But he — he didn’t!” she stammered.
“You two — you and Father did it !”

Her father said drily, ignoring her, “An
emergency exists, Tom. You didn’t hear that
part at the beginning. The World President
proclaims an emergency, takes over emer-
gency powers — -and he can do anything
necessary to control all action against any-
body and anything.”

"The first thing he’ll do is put us in
protective custody to keep us from denying
that the ships are animals. I can’t be allowed
to do anything! I’m a political has-been. I
can’t be allowed to come back. Now tell me
— how much more has to be done to the
W eddington?"

“All finished, sir,” said Tom. "I’d like
more fuel but we can take off.”

“Then we take off,” said McGuire. He
turned to Kit. "We’ll be hunted, I suspect.
No danger, of course. This is merely
criminal stupidity, not political murder
they’ll have in mind. But do you want to
stay here?”

"N-no!” said Kit. “I— I—” Then she
sobbed. “Tom! What should I do?”

Tom said, "I told you Fd give you no
advice as long as you’re engaged to Lan.
It’s your business.”

“But — but — ” Then she stamped her foot.
“I wouldn’t marry him ! I’m not engaged to
him ! I’ll never speak to him again !”

"Then,” said Tom, “what are you waiting
for ?”

There was a thin buzzing noise overhead.
It seemed to grow louder. McGuire, swear-
ing, raced for the door with the others
after him. Tom caught Kit’s hand to help
her run faster. McGuire was climbing into
the W eddington as the others emerged in-
to the open air. There were specks in the
sky — solid specks with helicopter screws
above them — and they were coming swiftly
nearer.

Tom heaved Kit to the doorway and in-
side. He climbed after her. The entrance
port slammed. Instantly McGuire threw on
the drive and, with a monstrous roaring
and moaning sound, the W eddington shot
upward.

Surprisingly McGuire seemed to be
amused. "Lan made a very quick deal!” he
observed. “He gets a fancy administration
post, stupidity has the upper hand and all
space-ships of all classes are commandeered
by the government. They won’t dare shoot us
down, though. After all I’ve had no formal
order to turn over this ship. But they cer-
tainly came for it in a hurry!”

The W eddington shot skyward. A heli-
copter, with whirring screws, dropped past
the control room windows. Another went
careening crazily past.

“Almost rammed him,” said McQuire.
"Damn politics! Let ’em keep clear of us!”

The W eddington penetrated a thick white
cloud. It sped on and on and on, upward.
Presently the sky turned purplish and stars
appeared faintly. Then the sky was black,
with a myriad unwinking specks of light
everywhere and a glaring yellow ball of a
sun.

The earth was a vast, indistinct space
below them.

“And now,” said McGuire comfortably,
“what are we going to do? If I’d had time
to get some supplies I’d head for the Ghost
Planet direct. I want the space-drive they’ve
got. They want something we’ve got. How
are we going to see if we can’t swap what we
want instead of fighting for it?”

Kit said suddenly, very confidently, "Tom
will think of something!”

38

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

CHAPTER VI [I
Contact!

T OM did. Not by any sudden inspiration,
but forced to it by a dodged hanging-
on and the sheer necessity put upon him by
the ships of the ghost- planet. The Wedding-
ton continued to climb, no longer rapidly
but as the alternative to descent. There
was no such storage of fuel n her tanks as
would make a journey to the Ghost Planet
feasible unless she spent long weeks coasting
with no expenditure of power.

And that was not practical. Long before
an economy-voyage could be achieved guided
missiles from Earth would have made any
possible negotiations impossible. The guided
missiles would be converted survey-ships
and reserve supply craft used to keep the ob-
servations on Luna and Mars and Mercury
provisioned.

They would be such monstrous bombs as
might, indeed, shatter any civilization — any
ghostly civilization — the Ghost Planet could
support. But surely, before then, hostilities
against the misty fleet would have begun
with such vigor that warfare would be openly
admitted, and the space-drive that had
brought it across uncounted trillions of miles
of emptiness would be ready to carry the
Ghost Planet beyond the reach of Earth’s
relatively short-range weapons.

The sunlit Earth was a hazy solidity fill-
ing half the void outside the Weddington.
The curve of its edge was plain against
the glimmer of the Milky Way. But against
that glimmer, too, there appeared those
seeming bits of thistledown which were
actually the space vessels of the mysterious
Ghost Planet.

From the west a squadron of no less than
forty drove above atmosphere toward the
very spot where the Weddington climbed
slowly toward an as yet unannounced desti-
nation. Kit saw them and painted them out
uneasily.

“Hm,” said Tom coldly. “Their normal
traveling acceleration is four point two gravi-
ties. We can’t beat that. What do we do?
Dive down into atmosphere where we’re able
to fight?”

But he was already changing the controls.
The Weddington ceased to climb. It began

to sweep in a great circle some five miles
across.

Tom said explanatorily, “They can see
us. If we run away or dive for Earth, well
look scared. Just pretending to patrol above
Pasadena, we can bluff for time — I think.”

He searched with his eyes around the edge
of the great sweep the Weddington , now
made over Pasadena. He nodded.

“They’re coming all right! There's an-
other fleet. And there’s still another. We’ve
hit back. As a military operation it’s neces-
sary to find out immediately what we’ve
got — if they mean war. And apparently they
do.”

McGuire said shrewdly, “We have only to
dodge down into atmosphere and we can
fight them. Actually, with the trigger-
energy field turned on, we’d energize air so
it would be ruinous to them. Chasing us, our
wake could cut them in two, just as we
punched holes in the ship down yonder.”

“Sure,” said Tom grimly. “But we’re in
a bad spot. Not for ourselves, of course. I
think we can make a break. But if we’ve
been sighted and then run away — ” He spoke
wrathfully. “I’m thinking of leaving the
Government in a good position. We can’t
reveal its weakness though it wants to put
us in jail !”

There was silence. That was true. If the
IV eddington had been sighted, to the mist-
ships it would represent the people on Earth.
If it fled, it would convict them of cowardice
and lead to immediate attack. But if it did
not flee and was defeated, it would even more
definitely prove the present defenselessness
of Earth.

As loyal human beings, it was up to Tom
and McGuire to prove the courage and dead-
liness of Earth people with very inadequate
means. Against mist globes not expecting at-
tack the Weddington had been effective.
Against a fleet gathering for action against
her the little Earth ship was rather pathetic.

The V-shaped formation of mist-globes
swept nearer and nearer and nearer. When
within a very few miles its rate of nearing
lessened. The whole formation came to a
stop, perhaps a hundred and fifty to two
hundred miles above Earth’s surface. It hung
in mid-space.

The Weddington continued its grim cir-
cling. Other mist globe formations appeared.

“They see our ionization-trail,” said Tom
sourly-. “They’re debating what to do. They
can’t he bluffed off permanently.”

THE GHOST PLANET 39

R OUND and round and round the circle
the W eddington went. A second for-
mation arrived. It checked and stopped like
the first. A third and fourth and fifth for-
mation — they seemed to drift into a ringlike
arrangement, lining the course of the cir-
cuit the Wedding ton repeated over and over
and over, looking like fat round spooks re-
garding a curious phenomenon.

“They know we can hurt them,” said
McGuire suddenly. "At least, they know we
did. And it’s crazy for us to defy them with
no weapon better than we’ve got. Maybe
they think we’ve got something we’re quite
sure will handle them and are waiting for
them to start something!”

The spectacle was peculiar in the extreme.
The W eddington was squat and clumsy and
unhandy. Here, where any trace of air re-
maining was as thin as the substance of the
ghost-ships themselves, the little ship went
in what seemed an abstracted, yet somehow
defiant circling within the ring of gossamer-
thin unsubstantial spheres which watched rt.

“If they think we’re daring them — ” said
Tom suddenly, "they think we could attack
them but are holding back. For the love of
St. Peter ! Don’t you see what we’re doing ?
We’re assuming they’re like men ! That
they’ll get into wars they don’t want because
they’re led by fools!”

He suddenly pounded on the control-board.
The circular course of the W eddington con-
tinued unchanged but her progress was in
jerks.

“What — whatTe you doing?” demanded
Kit, grabbing hold of a stanchion.

“Taking a chance,” growled Tom. “They
can see our ionization-trail. I’m guessing that
they think we’ve been daring them to attack
us and yet not attacking ourselves. So, now
that we’ve defied them long enough, I’m
signaling with our wake.

“I’m turning the drive off and on. I’m
making puffs of stuff from our exhaust, run-
ning through numerals first. I’ve gotten up
to six. Now I’ll start doing squares, and
then I’ll do cubes in series. The informa-
tion won’t be new but it will show that we
are assuming they’re rational creatures and
that we are prepared to communicate with
them.”

The W eddington continued to circle
tediously. Suddenly one of the globes flared.
A spot of distinct luminosity appeared below
it And the luminosity flared and dimmed,
first in a series of flashes which meant num-

erals, then two twos and then four flashes,
then four flashes and four and sixteen after
it.

"They want to talk,” said Tom with a
sigh of deepest relief “It’s queer we know
that a war means botli sides lose and neither
wins but we never act on that assumption.
We didn’t even begin to suspect that another
civilized race might have found out the
same thing and that they might act on it!”

He checked the speed of the little Earth-
ship and came to a stop in mid-space opposite
the ghost-globe that had flashed the light. He
plainly, specifically, singled it out. Then he
began to descend toward Earth. After a bare
second the ghost-globe followed it.

McGuire grinned. "For another twelve
hours,” he told Tom, “we’re a monopoly on
weapons against the ghosts. It’ll take that
long to turn out more trigger field genera-
tors. So for that long we can act as ambas-
sadors and the Administration will have to
backwater.

"It can put pressure on the news services,
but it can’t suppress this! I’m going to put
out a G. C. emergency aircraft call the in-
stant we’re under the Heaviside layer. By
law all other radio traffic has to stop.

“And when I announce that I’m bringing
a ghost globe to Earth under a flag .of truce
to open negotiations with the Government —
let them try to suppress the news ! A democ-
racy can make some horrible blunders but
praise Allah there are limits!”

And the ghost globe and the W eddington
settled down out of emptiness where the sky
was dark and many stars burned, to a place
where the sky was merely deep purple, and
then to a level where there was blue overhead
and clouds not too far below and then down
below those clouds.

The Weddington, in fact, settled with a
bump beside McGuire’s own house and the
police who had raided it less than two hours
since were very respectful. McGuire had
made his G. C. call while the two ships were
still ten miles up and the people of Earth
were definitely alarmed enough to demand
accommodation instead of war. The air-police
had received instant sweeping orders. Mc-
Guire was grimly triumphant.

The ghost sphere settled close by and it'
was quaint to see how cagily the air-police
stayed away from it. But Tom and McGuire
climbed down from the Weddington and
walked toward it.

"This is unprecedented,” McGuire told

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

40

Lan sardonically. “That a private citizen
should be able to overrule the stupidity of his
elected rulers and force the practise of com-
mon sense. Now, if our friends the spooks
are just as sensible — ”

For an instant, under the thin and tenuous
unsubstantiality of the ghost globe, it all
seemed very improbable. But the globe
abruptly began to thicken. Instinctively
Tom’s pulse raced.

McGuire said calmly, “They’re taking
some dirt from the lawn into the other cos-
mos to make themselves more visible to us.
It’s a good sign.”

The globe reached the density of black
smoke. A darker space appeared in its under-
side. Something square and misty came out
and floated to the earth. It checked there and
solidified.

“Trigger-energy,” said McGuire, in satis-
faction. “We thought of charging shells' with
trigger-energy to make them real to the
ghosts. They’ve charged a gadget of some
sort with the same energy to make it real
to us.”

H E PICKED up the gadget — which
still, however, was curiously light in
weight.

“Vision screen,” he observed. “Evidently,
they figure they can communicate between
the two universes. Hm — they wouldn’t have
to transmit energy between. If they could
control energy in this cosmos from that — to
be sure ! No energy transmission. Just con-
trol. Let’s look.”

Then he uttered an exclamation. A face
looked out at him from a disk on the face
of the square object. It was not a human
face at all but it had eyes which were ob-
viously intelligent. The cube from the mist
sphere made humming sounds.

“My word!” said McGuire. “It’s not
language but I understand it!”

So did Tom.

% 5(C ifc ;{c

There, was a flare of trumpets from the
vision set, and the non-human but non-re-
pulsive countenance of the creatures from the
Ghost Planet faded out. The screen lighted
again, and the dogged, heavy-lidded features
of McGuire looked out.

“That,” he said practically, “was the face
of the official commanding the exploration
fleet of the Ghost Planet. Let me make it
clear ! There are two universes at least — no-

body knows how many more there may be —
which touch each other along some one or
two of the dimensions by which each is
measured.

“We have known of the existence of
ghost suns for centuries — suns so thin that
they are practically vacua, yet which glow.
We know now that such suns are actually
normal suns in another universe, with planets
and gravitations of their own.

“The Ghost Planet revolved about such a
sun. Its people — one of whom you have just
seen — developed a civilization in some ways
greater than that of Earth. But just as some
of our arts lag behind others, some arts
lagged behind there. Some mentalities are
not suited for some types of investigation.

“The people of the Ghost Planet did not
progress in biology as we have done. Their
civilization reached a limiting point, beyond
which it could not go without further pro-
gress in a science which was stalled."

McGuire blinked from the screen.

“They sent out exploring ships in quest
of the knowledge they had failed to acquire.
They found other civilizations in their own
universe, none equal to theirs. Yet they could
not hope to go on without knowledge their
own science had not discovered.

“They were in the position of humanity.
We have needed an interstellar drive for a
very long time. We must emigrate or suf-
focate. But emigration has been impossible.
The people of the Ghost Planet were limited
by a spontaneous mutation of their body cells
which once existed on Earth but was con-
quered seventy years ago.

“They came to Earth. To them our sun
is a ghost sun and our planet a spectre. But
their exploring ships found a civilization
here — and no sign of the disease which had
balked all their science. So one of the
planets they had colonized came across the
void, to serve as a base for their examina-
tion of our science, to learn how we had
escaped their own disaster.”

Then McGuire said, without melodrama,
“We have exchanged information with
them. They have given us the secret of an
interstellar drive, by which all the planets
of our universe are made available to us for
colonization. The farthest rim of our Galaxy
will be no more than four weeks’ journey
when we have built ships with the new drive.

“In return we gave them information
which is now included in the schooling of
human children at the age of ten. We gave

THE GHOST PLANET

them the history of the human conquest of
cancer. The Ghost Planet returns to its own
place. The two races will never again en-
counter each other unless they so wish it.

“We have galaxies to occupy and to de-
velop. They — are our friends. Already they
have returned the humans they drew in-
to their own cosmos in the hope of getting
the information they sought.

“The individuals they chose were, un-
fortunately, so frightened or so limited in
education that they had forgotten the facts
they learned in grammar school. It was
necessary for a great deal of confusion to
occur, and a great many misunderstandings
to happen, before actual two-way communi-
cation was opened and the bargain for the
exchange of information struck. It is struck.
Both races are immeasurably enriched.”

Then McGuire said prosaically, “I think
that is all.”

His face faded from the screen. An an-
nouncer’s unctuous voice began, “You have
heard the broadcast of the bargain made — ”

Kit threw off the switch. Her father came
in the door from the next room.

“How did I do?”

“Wonderful!” said Kit. “But you didn’t
say a word about Tom !”

Tom grinned. Kit’s father chuckled.

“Tom wanted it that way. We’re forming
a space-ship company to use the new drive.
He doesn’t want to be commandeered for
lectures on borderline matter and the biology
of ghosts. He could be under the controlled
research laws.”

“I’d like,” said Tom meditatively, “to find
a planet not too much unlike Earth but not
so crowded and start a little colony there and
do research without worrying about anything
in particular.”

4i

“Wonderful!” said Kit, her eyes shining.

Her father said abruptly, “Lan called up.
He explained that he said what he did to
get a defense program started. He claimed
all credit to bypass the Administration
anxiety not to give me any. Now he’s in an
awful mess. But I straightened the young
man out.”

Tom said, “How?”

McGuire chuckled again. “I said at the
time he’d made a quick deal with some poli-
ticians 1 know. It backfired and he made a
fool of himself. So I suggested that since
I’ve become a hero in spite of myself and all
my enemies, the gentlemen he made the deal
with won’t want that deal made public. And
I suggested that he could blackmail them
out of a comfortable government position. I
think he was quite grateful for the sugges-
tion.”

Kit said, “Father — ”

“What?”

"I’m engaged to Tom.”

Her father displayed no surprise at the
announcement.

“And,” said Kit, “we’re talking about
when to get married.”

Her father said judicially, “Talk it over
with him. His ideas, so far, have been pretty
good. But — hm — I’m going to push this in-
terstellar drive business fast! I’ll have a
ship ready to take off in three months or less,
I suspect.”

“Well?”

“Either it should be a honeymoon trip,”
her father observed, “or the honeymoon
should be over before you start. Preferably
the latter, I’d say. I’ll want Tom available
for consultation as the trip progresses. Use
your own judgment.”

Tom did.

FEATURED IN THE NEXT ISSUE

THE WEAPON SHOPS OF ISUER

A IS etc Novel by

A. E. VAN VOGT

24©, ©CC HI LEX

The "Angel" was named in sarcasm — a fact which
officials failed to take into account when they
sent him to the Moon on a mission of surrender 1

CHAPTER I
Left at the Post

T HE PARTY was wild. The night
was gay. And the “Angel" was very,
very drunk.

But who wouldn’t have got drunk on
such an occasion? The Angel was about
to head man’s first attempt to conquer space
and within a few short hours he would be

boring space to the Moon, 240,000 miles
straight up.

He had tried to stay sober but this, being
without precedent in the Angel’s career,
was entirely too great a strain. “Don’t dare
take another grink — well — jush one more
— hie !”

42

ncAienT up

The Angel was First Lieutenant Cannon him Angel from the first, called it to his
Gray of the United States Army Air Forces, face, loved him and was hilarious over his
Engineers. He was five feet two inches tall escapades.

and he had golden curly hair and a face This was probably the first time in history
like a choir boy. Old ladies thought him that Angel had attempted to stay sober,
•wonderful and beautiful. His superiors, But it was a wonderful party they were
from the moment he had entered West giving in his honor (two floors of the
Tfoint, had found him just about the wicked- Waldorf plus the l>allrooin) and people kept
^st, hard drinkingest, go-to-hell splinter erf insisting that he wouldn’t get another chance
<etsex\ they'd ever tried to forge. at a drink for months and maybe never and

The army, with a taste of opposites, called everyone was so pleasant that good resolu-

A novelet by L. E>ON HU 13 13 A CD

43

44 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

tions were very hard to hold — especially
for a dashing young officer who had never
tried to make any before.

The occasion was gala and his hand was
sore from being pumped by brasshats and
newsmen and senators. For at zero four
zero eight of the dawning, First Lieutenant
Cannon Gray, U.S.A., was taking off for
the Moon.

It was in all the papers.

Several times Colonel Anthony, a veri-
table old maid of a flight surgeon, had tried
to pry his charge loose and steer him to bed
and, while Angel seemed willing and looked
blue eyed and agreeable, he always vanished
before the hall was reached. Really, it was
not Angel’s fault.

No less than nineteen frail, charming and
truly startling young ladies, all professing
undying passion and future faithfulness, had
turned up one after the other and it was
something of a task making each one un-
aware of the other eighteen and confirmed
in her belief in his lasting fidelity.

Such strains should not be placed upon
young men about to fly two hundred and
forty thousand miles straight up. And it
takes hours to say a proper good-by. And
it takes more hours to be respectful to brass.
And it takes time, time, time to drink up
all the toasts shoved at one. All in all it
was a very exhausting evening.

Not until zero one zero six did Colonel
Anthony manage to catch the collapsing
Angel in such a way as to keep him. Wrap-
ped in the massive grip of Colonel Anthony,
Angel said, “Candrin four oh eigli — snore!”

The golden head dropped on the Colonel’s
eagle and Angel slept.

Cruelly, it was no time at all before some-
body was slapping Angel awake again, stand-
ing him on his feet, getting him into a
uniform, wrapping him up in furs, weighing
him down with equipment and generally
tangling up a dark, dismal and thoroughly
confused morning.

Angel was aware of a howling headache.
Small scarlet fiends, especially commissioned
by the Prince of Darkness for the purpose,
played a gay chorus with red hot hammers
just behind Angel’s eyes. He was missing
between his chin and his knees and his
feet wandered off on various courses.

A FLIGHT major and two sergeants
undeniably capped with horns, danced
in high anxiety around him and managed

to touch him in all the places that hurt.

He was in horrible condition and no mis-
take.

And the watch on his wrist gleamed as
hugely as a steeple clock and said, "Zero
three fifty-one,” in an unnecessarily loud
voice.

The corridor was at least half the distance
to Mars and Angel kept hitting the walls.
The casual chairs with which he collided
all apologized profusely.

A potted palm fell on him and then be-
came a general who, with idiotic pomposity
said, “Fine morning, fine morning lieuten-
ant. You look fit. Fit, sir. No clouds and
a splendid full moon.”

He felt the call, one which generals too
old for command can never resist, to give
a young officer the benefit of a wealth of
experience but, fortunately, his aide swiftly
interposed.

The aide was brilliant with the usual
aide’s enthusiam for paper glory and dis-
taste for generals. Angel knew him well.
The aide, in Angel’s day at the Point, had
been an Upperclassman, a noted grind, a
shuddery bore and the darling of his seniors.
He didn’t look any better to Angel this
morning.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the aide sidewise
to the general, “but we’ve just time to brief
him as we ride down. Here, this way lieu-
tenant.” And, abetted by the usherlike habit
peculiar to the breed of aides, he got Angel
into the car.

"Now,” said the aide to Angel, who was
hard put to stifle his groans and shivers at
the unearthly hour, “you have been thor-
oughly briefed. But there must be a quick
resume unless you think you are thoroughly
cognizant of your duties.”

Angel would have answered but the sound
came out as a groan.

“Very well,” said the aide, just as though
his were the really important job and
Angel was just a sort of paperweight, very
needful to aides but not at all important.
“The staff is terribly interested in your
surveys.

“You will confine yourself wholly to this
one task. It has been thought wisest to en-
trust a topographer with this first mission
because, after all, that’s the way things are
done. We’ve insufficient reconnaissance to
send up a main body.”

Angel would have added that he was a
guinea pig. They didn’t even know if he

45

240,000 MILES STRAIGHT UP

could really get to the moon. But aides talk
like that and lieutenants somehow let them.

“As soon as you have completed a survey
of an elementary sort you will televise your
maps, then send a complete set in a pilot
rocket and return if you are able. But you
are not to risk bringing the maps back per-
sonally.”

They were little enough sure he’d ever
get there, much less get back.

“You will phone all data back to us. Our
tests show that the wave can travel much
further than that. Anything you may think
important, beyond maps and perhaps geology,
you are permitted to note and report.

“Under no circumstances are you to at-
tempt to change any control settings in your
ship. Everything is all prenavigated and
proper setting will be phoned to you for
your return.

“All instructions are here in this packet.”

Angel shoved the brown envelope into
his jacket and felt twinges of pain as he
did so.

“My boy,” said the general, getting a word
in there somehow, “this is a glorious oc-
casion. You have been chosen for your
courage and loyalty and it is a great honor.
A great honor, my boy. You will, I am
sure, be a credit to your country.”

Angel didn’t mean it to be a groan but
that is the way it came out. They had chosen
him because he was the smallest man ever
to enter West Point, his height having been
waived because of the lump of tin — the
Congressional Medal of Honor, no less —
he had won as an enlisted man (under age)
in the war.

They had needed a topographer who
wouldn’t subtract from pay load. Space
travel was to begin with seeming to create
a demand for a race of small men. But he
didn’t tell the general this and they came to
the end of the ride.

T HE aide expertly ushered Angel out
into the bleak blackness of the take-off
field, where every officer and newspaperman
who could wangle it was all buttoned up
to the ears and massed about the whitish
blob of the ship.

The flight surgeon took over and pro-
tected Angel from the back swats and got
him through to the ladder. The two small-
ish master sergeants— Whittaker and Boyd
— were waiting at the top in the open door
of the ship. Metal glinted beyond them in

the lighted interior.

Whittaker was methodically chewing a
huge wad of tobacco and Boyd was humming
a bawdy tune as he stared up at the roman-
tically round and glowing moon in the west.
They were taking off away from it for rea-
sons best known to the U.S. Navy navigators
who had set the course.

A commander was hurrying about, mut-
tering sums, and he paused only long enough
to glare at Angel. “Don't touch those sets!”
he growled, and rushed off to take station
at the pushbutton which, when all was well,
would fire the assist rockets under the car-
riage on the rails. These were keyed in
with the ship’s rockets. The commander
glared at his ticking standard chronometer.

The flight surgeon said, “Well, you’ve
got a week to sober up, boy. You won’t
like this take-off.”

Angel gave him a green smile. It hadn’t
been the champagne. It was the apricot
cordial that Alice had brought him to take
along. “I’ll be fine,” said Angel, managing
a ghost of his lovely smile.

“ Board t” shouted the commander.

Angel went up the ladder. Whittaker
spat out his chaw and lent a hand. Boyd
was standing by on the stage and, more to
avert the necessity of having to see Angel’s
poor navigation than from interest, turned a
powerful navy night glass on the Moon.
Boyd was very fond of Angel in a cussing
sort of way.

But Angel made it without help and had
just turned to give the faces, white blurs
there in the floodlights, a parting wave to
the click of cameras when Boyd yelled.

“Oh, my aching Aunt!”

There was sc much amazed fear in that
shout that everyone stared at Boyd and
then turned to find what he saw. Angel
found Boyd shoving the glasses at him.

“Look, lieutenant!”

Angel hadn’t supposed himself able to
see a thousand-dollar bill, much less the
clear Moon. And then he jumped as if he’d
been clipped with a bullet.

The commander was howling at them to
batten down but Angel stood and stared,
glasses riveted to the lunar glory.

Those with sharper eyes could see it now.
And a wail went up interspersed with awful
silences. Even the testy commander turned
to stare, looked back to the ship and then
whipped about to snatch a quartermaster’s
glass from his gunner. He took one look

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

4B

and froze in silence.

Every face was uplifted now, the field
was stunned. For there on the moon in
print which must have been a hundred miles
high, done in lampblack, were the letters —

USSR

CHAPTER II
Take-Off

F OR some days Angel languished in
bachelor officers’ quarters, all out of
gear. He had been nerved up to a job and
then it hadn’t come off. The frustration re-
sulted in lack of any desire for animation of
whatever kind.

It was the sort of feeling one gets when
he says good-by, good j by, to all his friends
at the curb and then, just as he starts off
in the car, runs out of gas and has to call
a garage.

His room was littered with newspapers
which he had long since perused. The mess-
boy brought stacks in every now and then
until bed and furniture seemed to be con-
structed badly of newsprint.

His own personal tragedy was such that
he hardly cared for the details. Instead of
being the first man to fly to the Moon he
was again just a simple lieutenant with
nothing more than his deserved reputation
for angelic wickedness. It came very hard
to him, poor chap.

But it came very hard to the world as well.
For events had transpired which made any
former event including World War II a
petty incident.

The world had been conquered without
firing any other shots than those needed to
propel Russian forces to the Moon. The
head of the Russian state had promptly is-
sued manifestoes in no uncertain terms de-
manding that all armies and navies be
scrapped everywhere and Russian troops ad-
mitted as garrisons to every world capital.
Russia had plans.

One by one countries had begun to fly the
hammer and sickle without ever seeing a
single Red army star.

For it was obvious to everyone. Even
statesmen. All Russia had to do was launch
atom bombs from the Moon at any offender
to destroy him wholly.

The mystery of how Russia had solved the
atom bomb and had so adroitly manufactured
all the plutonium it could ever need was
solved when a Russian scientist stated for
the press that he had needed but one year
and the Smythe report. Everybody began
to quiet down, for at first there had been
talk of traitors and selling the secret.

But now that it was at last obvious that
there never had been any secret and that
self-navigating missiles could be very easily
launched from the Moon at any Earth target
and that, such was the gravity difference, it
would be nearly impossible to bomb-saturate
the Moon from Earth, even the die-hards
could see they were whipped.

A demand on Washington had come from
Russia for the entire U. S. atom stockpile
and Congress was debating right now, with-
out much enthusiasm, a law to give it up.

It had been very striking the way the
morale of the world had collapsed, seeing
up there in the sky those giant letters,
U.S.S.R. Communists in every land had be-
gun to crawl out from under dubious cover
and prepare welcomes for Russian troops
(and the Russians had been bidding the
foreign communists to crawl right back
again).

To understate the matter, there was some
little consternation in the nations and peoples
of the world. And whatever labor thought
about it they at least remembered that of
all the civilized nations of Earth, Russia
had been the only one after World War II
to employ, use, exploit (and let die) slaves.

And then, just as surrender was being ac-
complished, the U. S. Naval Intelligence,
working with the State Department, had
done some interception and unscrambling
and decoding which again gave everyone
pause. By great diligence and watchfulness
they had managed to tap in on the Moscow-
Moon circuit to discover that all was not well.

Angel had been reading about the Moon
commander. The man was General Slavin-
sky and at first reading Angel had decided,
with a bitterness not usually found in celes-
tial sprites, that he hated the trebly-damned
intestines of General Slavinsky.

Slavinsky was known as the "Avenger of
Stalingrad” and had been a very popular
general in his own country. The Germans,
however, had not liked him, jealous no
doubt of the thorough sadism of the Rus-
sian.

When Slavinsky had notbeen winning bat-

240,000 MILES

ties he had been butchering prisoners and
he had turned his men loose to loot in many
a neutral town and conquered province.
Slavinsky evidently had himself all mixed
up with Genghis Khan, complete with pyra-
mids of skulls.

The pictures in the papers showed Slav-
insky to be a big, powerful man, meticulous-
ly uniformed, always smoking cigarettes.
Typical corporal-made-good, Slavinsky had
been Moscow’s favorite peasant. About as
cultured as a bull, be was quite proud of
his refinement. And he had been sent with
troops, supplies and bombs to command
Russia's most trusted post, the Moonbase.

It was here that dictatorship displayed its
weakness. Bred by force out of starvation,
the Russian state had very scant background
of tradition. And trustworthy military forces
are trustworthy only by their tradition. Slav-
insky owed no debt to anyone but the Rus-
sian dictator. The Russian people would not
know one dictator from another.

I T DEVELOPED, when Slavinsky was
well dug in, that he had been a Trotsky ite
since boyhood arid the murder of his ideal
in Mexico had left him festering very private-
ly. At least that was a fine excuse.

Once there Slavinsky began to make cer-
tain demands on Moscow. Moscow was be-
ginning to be acrimonious about it. The
dictator had ordered Slavinsky home and
Slavinsky had told the dictator where he
could stufiF Moscow. Moscow was now
threatening to withhold needed supplies.

U. S. Naval Intelligence and the State
Department were very interested and rumors
flew amongst the personnel of the U. S.
Moon Expedition that something was about
to break.

Angel lay on his back, feet against the
wall-paper and gloomed. When a knock
came on the door he supposed it was an-
other load of papers and sadly said, “Come
in.”

But it was a colonel who stood there and
Angel very hastily bounced up to sharp at-
tention.

“We’re having callers, son,” said the
Colonel. “Be down in the court in five
minutes.”

Disinterestedly, Angel got himself into a
blouse and wandered out. He wondered if
he would ever feel human and normal again.
All his life he had been a somewhat notorious
but really rather unimportant runt and the

STRAIGHT UP 47

big chance to be otherwise had passed, it
seemed, forever.

He hardly noticed his fellow officers as
he lined up in the court. Most of them
were erf the Moon gang, destined to go,
once upon a time, in various capacities on
the abandoned expedition. None of them
looked very cheerful.

There was hardly a ripple or a glance
when the big Cadillac drew up at the curb.
Their senior barked attention and the of-
ficers drew up. Only then, when ordered
to see nothing and be robot, did Angel note
that the car had the SecNav’s flag on it.

Four civilians, namely the secretary of
state, the secretaries of defense, war and
the navy, alighted, followed by a five star
admiral and a five star general. They were
a dispirited group and they cast wilted
glances over the lines of young officers.

The colonel in command of the detachment
fell in with them behind the secretary of
state and proceeded with this strange in-
spection.

Finally the group drew off and stood be-
side the Cadillac talking in low tones until
they nodded agreement and then waited.

The colonel sang out, “Lieutenant Gray!”

Angel started from his trance, came to
attention, paced front and center and auto-
matically saluted the group. The colonel
looked baffled as he came forward.

In a voice the others could not overhear,
the colonel said, “I have no idea why they
chose you, Angel. They were looking spe-
cifically for the tamest officer here. God
knows how or why, but you won. They
couldn’t have looked at the records !”

“Thank you, sir,” said Angel.

The colonel gave him a hard look and led
him off to the car.

They didn’t say anything to him. Angel
got in beside the driver and, when the doors
had shut behind the rest, they moved off
at a dispirited speed.

Nothing was said until they arrived in the
driveway of the White House and then
the general told Angel to follow them.

The abashed lieutenant alighted on the
gravel, looked up at the big hanging lantern
and the door, then quickly went after his
superiors. This was all very deflating stuff
to him. The closest he had ever come to
the President was leaving his card in the
box for the purpose in the Pentagon Build-
ing — and he doubted that the President ever
read the cards dropped by officers newiy

THRILLING WONDER STOWES

48

come to station or passing through.

He hardly saw the hall and was still dazed
when the general again asked his name,
sotto voce.

“Mr. President,” said the five star, “may
I introduce First Lieutenant Cannon Gray.”

Angel shook the offered hand and then
dizzily found a chair like the rest. All eyes
were on him. Nobody was very sure of him,
that was a fact. Nobody liked what he was
doing.

“Lieutenant Fay — ” began the President.

"Gray, sir.”

“Oh yes, of course. Lieutenant Gray, we
have brought you here to ask you to per-
form a mission of vital importance to your
country. You may withdraw now without
stigma to yourself when I tell you that you
may not return from this voyage.

"We considered it useless to ask for vol-
unteers since then we would have had to
explain a thing which I believe we all agree
is the most humiliating thing this country
has ever had to do. We are not prepared
just now for publicity. You may withdraw.”

This, thought Angel, was a hell of a way
to force a guy into something. Who could
withdraw now? “I am willing,” he said.

“Splendid,” said the president. “I am
happy to see, gentlemen, that you have
chosen a brave officer. Here are the des-
patches. ”

A NGEL looked through them quickly and
then at the first page of the sheaf,
which was a brief summary.

He learned that one Slavinsky, late gen-
eral of Russia, had finally, forever parted
company with his dictator and had declared
himself master of Russia and the world. The
United States was now addressed in uncom-
promising fashion by Slavinsky and ordered
to do two things.

One, immediately to prepare a land, sea
and air attack on Russia — one city in the
United States or one city in Russia to pay
for the first use of atom bombs by either —
in order to secure the government of that
nation to Slavinsky. And two, to send in-
stantly a long list of needed supplies by one
of the space-ships known to be ready in the
United States. Angel knew that he was to
be interested in “two.”

"This situation,” said the President, "is
unparalleled.” And with that understate-
ment, continued, “Unless we comply we will
lose all our cities and still have to obey. We

are insufficiently decentralized to avoid these
orders.

“Humiliated or not, we must proceed to
save ourselves. Slavinsky holds the Moon
and is armed with plentiful atom rockets.
And he who holds the Moon, we learn too
late, controls all the earth below.

“We are asking you,” he continued, "to
take the supplies to the Moon. We have
secretly loaded a space-ship with the re-
quired items and need only one officer and
two men as crew.

“The reason we send you at all is to en-
sure the arrival of the supplies in case of
breakage on the way and, more important,
in the hope that Slavinsky will let you go
and you can bring back data which, if ac-
curate enough, may possibly aide us to de-
stroy Slavinsky and his men.”

“Mr. President,” said the secretary of
state, “we have chosen this man not for valor
but for reliability. I think it was our in-
tention that whoever we sent should attempt
no heroics which would anger Slavinsky. I
think Lieutenant May should be so warned.”
“Yes, yes,” said the President. “This is of
the utmost importance. You are only to re-
turn if Slavinsky permits it. You are to
attempt no heroics. For if you failed in them
we would pay the price. Am I understood
in that, lieutenant?”

Angel said he was.

“Now then,” said the president, “the
space-ship is waiting and, when you have
picked your two crewmen and Commander
Dawson gives the word, you can leave.
These despatches” — and he took up a sheaf
of them — “are for General Slavinsky and
may be considered important only as routine
diplomatic exchanges.”

Angel took the package and stood up.
“One thing more,” said the admiral. “You
will be carrying a small pilot rocket aboard.
You will take the rolls from the automatic
recording machines, place them in it just
before you reach the Moon and launch the
missile back to Earth before landing. If we
have enough data, though it is a forlorn
hope, we may some day fight Slavinsky.”

“I doubt it,” said the secretary of state,
"but I won’t oppose your thirst for data,
admiral.”

They shook hands with the President and
then Angel found himself back in the Cadil-
lac, rolling through the rush-hour traffic of
Washington. Soon they made it to the
Fourteenth Street Bridge and went rocketing

240,000 MILES

into Virginia to a secret take-off field.

"Could you get me Master-sergeants
Whittaker and Boyd?” said Angel timidly
to the general.

"I’ll have them picked up on the way by
the barracks,” said the general. “No word
of this to anyone though.”

“Yes sir,” said Angel.

When darkness had come at the secret
field Commander Dawson turned up with
a briefcase full of calculations from the U. S.
Naval Observatory and began to check in-
struments.

'“Two o’clock,” he told the general.

“Two o’clock,” said the general to Angel.

Angel walked out of the . hangar and
joined Whittaker and Boyd.

Whittaker spat reflectively into the dust.
“I shore miss the brass band this time,
lootenant.”

"And the dames,” said Boyd, “Boy how
I’d like me a drink. We got time to go to
town, lootenant?”

Angel was walking around in small cir-
cles, his beautiful face twisted in thought.
Now and then he kicked gravel and swore
most unangelically.

T HEY were handing Slavinsky the world,
that was that. And without a scrap.
The slaughter of a Russian war was nothing
to anyone compared to the loss of Chicago.
Maybe it was logical but it just plain didn’t
seem American to be whipped so quick.

Suddenly he stopped, stared hard at
Boyd without seeing him and then socked
a fist into his palm.

“What's the matter?” said Boyd.

Angel went into the hangar where the
big ship was getting ready to be rolled out
on the rails now that her loading was done.

“General,” said Angel, “as long as I may
never have the chance again — and being
young makes it pretty hard — you might at
least let me go to town and buy a couple
quarts for the ride up.”

“You know the value of secrecy,” warned
the general. And then more kindly, “You
can take my car.”

Angel stood not. Some fifty seconds later
the Cadillac was heading for town at speeds
not touched in all its life before.

Whittaker and Boyd, in the back seat,
bounced and applied imaginary brakes.

“Listen you guys,” said Angel. “Your
necks are out as much as mine” — he avoided
two street cars at a crossing and screamed

STRAIGHT UP 49

on up toward F Street — “and I ought to
ask your permission.”

“We’re going to take a load of food to
Slavinsky on the Moon. Very hush-hush,
.though the only one we’ve to keep secrets
from now is Slavinsky. But I inter o
make a try at knocking off that base. /\re
you with me?”

“Why not?” said VVhittaker.

“Your party,” said Boyd.

Angel drew up before an apartment house
on Connecticut Avenue and rushed out. He
was back almost instantly with a grip and
considerable lipstick smeared on his cheek.

Boyd thought he heard a feminine voice
in the darkness above calling good-by as
they hurtled away. He grinned to himself.
This Angel !

Their next stop was before a drug store
and Angel dashed in. But he was gone
longer this time and seemed, according to a
glimpse through the window, to be having
trouble convincing the druggist. Angel came
out empty-handed and beckoned to his two
men.

Whittaker and Boyd walked in. A young
pharmacist looked scared. There was no
one else in the place.

Angel walked around behind the pharma-
cist. “Close the door,” said Angel. Three
minutes later the pharmacist was bound
quite securely in a back closet.

Angel ransacked the shelves and loaded
up a ninety-eight-cent bag. They turned out
the lights and closed the door softly behind
them and went away.

Twenty-one minutes later a young Chemi-
cal Warfare classmate of Angel’s was hauled
from the bosom of his family and after some
argument and several lies from Angel per-
mitted himself to be convinced by SecNav’s
Cadillac and went away with them.

They halted at an ordnance depot in
Maryland at eight-fifteen and the young
chemist opened padlocks and finally, with
many words of caution, delivered into
Angel's hands three small flasks.

It was well before two when Angel and
his men came back to the field. They alighted
with their burdens and whisked them into
the ship.

“Find that drink?” said the general in-
dulgently.

“Yes, sir,” said Angel.

“Good-boy!” said the general, chuckling
over having been young once himself. He
had not missed the lipstick and had applied

50 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

the school solution. when yon got op suddenly and found no

Commander Dawson was growling and
snarling around the ship like a vengeful
priest. Behind him came two quartermasters
carrying the precious standard chronometer
and spyglass.

“Better get aboard,” said Dawson roughly.
“And don’t monkey with those instruments.
We’re almost ready.” His scowl promised
1 that it didn’t matter to him what happened :
this time he was going to get that rocket
upstairs !

CHAPTER III

Moon Meeting

S TARK death was the Moon. No half-
tones, no softness. Black and white.
Knife-edged peaks and sharp rills. Hot
enough to fry iron. Cold enough to solidify
air. Brutal, savage, dead. Strictly Moussorg-
sky.

A place you wouldn’t want to go on a
honeymoon, Angel decided.

For all of Dawson’s growling they had not
hit the target exactly. Slavinsky had drawn
a big, lamp-black X below the U.S.S.R. on a
plateau near Tycho but the ship had hit
nearly eight miles from it.

Hit was the word, for if they had not
landed in pumice some thirteen feet thick
things would have been dented. The abrasive
dust had risen suddenly and drifted down
with an unnatural slowness.

For a week they had been lying around
in the padded cabin, experiencing space sick-
ness, worn out from accelerations and de-
celerations, living on K and D and C rations
and cursing the engineers who had drawn
such a thoroughly uncomfortable design.

Angel had sent off the pilot rocket as or-
dered, filled with the recording rolls, but
he had added a few succinct notes of his own
which he hoped the engineers would take
to heart. Such things as the way air rarified
up front on the take-off and nearly killed
Boyd.

Such things as drinking bottles that
wouldn’t throw water in vour face when you
got thirsty. Such things as straps to hold
you casually down when your body began
to wander around and helmets to keep your
head from cracking against the overhead

gravity.

But for all the travail of the past week the
Angel was bright-eyed and expectant. It
was balanced off in his mind whether he
would kill Slavinsky by slow fire or small
knife cuts.

For Angel had very far from enjoyed be-
ing cheated of the glory of being the first
man to fly to the Moon and he distinctly
disliked a man who would make a slave
country of the United States. Prejudiced
perhaps, but the Angel believed America was
a fine country and should stay free.

Boyd raked up three packages, tying a
fine and a C ration can, buoy-like, upon it.
Whittaker got a port open, inside pane only,
and looked at the scenery.

He turned and spat carefully into another
can — experience had taught him, this trip —
and then put on his space helmet, screwing
the lucite dome down tight. He glanced at
his companions.

Angel was having some trouble getting
into his suit because of his hair, but when
he had managed it he led the way to the
space port. The three of them crawled over
the supplies and entered the chamber, shut-
ting the airtight behind them.

They checked their air supplies and then
their communications. Satisfied, they let
the outer door open. With a swoosh the air
went out and they began their vacuumatic
lives.

It was thirty feet down but they didn’t use
the built-in rungs. Angel stepped out into
space and floated down like a miniature
spaceship to plant his ducklike shoes deep
into the soft pumice. Boyd followed him.
Whittaker, carrying debris in- the form of
cans and bottles in his hugely gloved hands,
came after.

As though on pogo sticks the three small
ships bounced around to the rear of the space
ship. Boyd threw the three packages down
and stamped them into the pumice. Whit-
taker scattered the debris around the one
can which was the real buoy marker.

The discarded objects floated in slow
motion into place and lay there in the
deathly stillness.

They looked around and their sighs echoed
in their earphones; one to the other. No
tomb had ever been this dead.

They were landed in a twilight zone,
thanks to Dawson. And if their suits —
rather, vehicles — had not been so extremely

240,000 MILES STRAIGHT UP 51

well insulated they would already be feeling
the cold.

The sky was ink. The landscape was a
study in Old Dutch cleanser and broken
basalt. A mountain range thrust startlingly
sharp and high to the west. A king-size
grand canyon dived away horribly to their
south. A great low plain, once miscalled a
sea, stretched endlessly toward Tycho.

Two miles away a meteor landed with a
crash which made the pumice ripple like
waves. A great column of the stuff, stiffly
formed in an explosion pattern, almost stro-
boscopic, stood for some time, having neither
gravity nor wind to disperse it.

A few fragments patted down, making new
slow motion bursts. But the meteor had
landed at ten miles a second and they all
winced and looked up into the blackness.
Having atmosphere was a subtle blessing.
Having none was horrible.

H AVING looked up, Angel saw Earth.

It was bigger than a Japanese Moon
and a lot prettier. It had colors, diffused
and gentle, below its aura of atmosphere. It
looked fairylike and unreal. Angel sighed
and thought about his favorite bar.

They snowshoed around the ship again.
The last of the sun, half visible like an up-
ended saucer made of pure arc light, came
to them through their leaded Incite helmets.
That sun was taking a long, long time to set.
Hours later it would still be sitting there.
Things obviously took their time on the
Moon.

Whittaker, unable to spit, was having
difficulties. Heroically, he swallowed his
chew.

They weren’t on the same wave length
with the Russians and the approaching de-
tachment came within a quarter of a mile
before they saw it. The group was tearing
along, bouncing like a herd of kangaroos,
sending up puffs of pumice at each leap.
They came alongside the ship in a moment
and, without any greeting to the newcomers,
scrambled up inside.

The officer came back and peered out at
the horizon and then ducked in again. It
was very difficult to see through the metal
helmets of these people but they looked
hungry.

Angel went up and stood in the space door.
The Russians had left the inner airtight
open and all the atmosphere had rushed from
the ship. Like madmen they were ripping

at the boxes and stuffing chocolate and bis-
cuit into their capacious bags. This was
evidently personal loot and the way they
were going at it looked bad for the boys
who had stayed behind.

Nobody paid any attention to Angel, not
even glancing his way, until the officer mo-
tioned Boyd and Whittaker into the ship
and then unceremoniously herded the three
of them into the forward hold and bolted a
door on them.

Through a forward port Angel saw the
two tractors approach. They were made of
aluminum mostly, and they seemed to run
out of a propane type tank. They threw hooks
into the skids of the ship and, their huge
treads soundlessly clanking, began to yank
the ship toward the king-size grand canyon.

After an hour or so of tugging they came
to the brink and were snaked around until
they fitted on an oblong metal stage which,
carrying tractors and all, promptly began to
descend.

The ship lurched in the lower blackness
and then lights flared up by which the stage
could be seen to rise into place above them.

Eager crews of spacesuited men swarmed
out of an airtight set in a blank wall and
in a few moments a stream of supplies was
being shuttled, bucket-brigade fashion, to-
ward the entrance.

It was a weird ballet of monsters in metal.
The supplies, so heavy on earth, were tossed
lightly from monster to monster which added
to the illusion. Big crates of dehydrated
sailed along like chips.

The unloading took three hours and eight
minutes by Angel’s watch and then the line
cleared away. Belatedly somebody thought
of the crew and unlocked the door. At pistol
point they were rushed out. down the ladder
and to the airtight. The gutted ship stood
forlornly behind them, their only contact
with home, associating now with six other
monsters, the Stars and Stripes outnumbered.

In the dank corridor behind the second
airtight men were standing around in various
stages of relaxation and undress. They kept
halting to gloat over the supplies which left
one Russian still in helmet but without pack
or gloves, another stripped to underwear,
a third in pack and all. Nobody glanced at
them.

Their guard shoved them into another
tunnel and they wound down a gentle grade
between basalt walls until they came to an-
other series of airtights. At the end they

52 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

were shoved into a chamber walled all in
metal, a sort of giant strongbox with doors
at each of the five sides.

A desk made of packing boxes stood in
the center. A rubber mattress bed was sev-
eral feet behind it. A crude hat tree bore
the fragments of a space suit. The place was
a combination of arsenal, bedroom and office,
sealed in, double-bolted, entrenched and
triple-guarded.

A T THE desk sat a singularly dirty man,
covered with matted black hair, clad in
pants, glistening with perspiration and scowl-
ing furiously under crew cut bristles.

This was Slavinsky, Vladimir, one-time
general of Russia, currently dictator erf the
world.

The guard had got out of his clumsy space
helmet. “The ship crew. Ruler,” he said
in English.

Whittaker had taken off his helmet and
was biting at a plug of Ole Mule. Boyd was
examining his fingernails.

Only Angel was still fully suited and
helmeted.

“Who is commander?" barked Slavinsky,
black eyes screwing up.

Boyd glanced up.

“I am Lieutenant Cannon Gray,” he said
with blue eyes wide.

“Don’t forget the despatches, lootenant,”
said Whittaker.

Boyd tossed the packet on the desk. It
floated down.

“I am displeased,” said Slavinsky.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said bogus Gray.
“I’ll sure tell the President when I get back.”
"You’re not going back!” said Slavinsky.
“You have failed."

“Looks to me like we brought a lot of
supplies,” said Boyd.

“You brought no cigarettes!” said Slav-
insky.

“Well, if that ain’t something,” said Boyd.
“I tell you them quartermasters ought to be
1 horsewhipped and that’s a fact. Well, well.
No cigarettes. You sure you checked the
inventory, general ?”

“The title of address is ‘Ruler!’ And I’ll
have no questioning of our actions. You
brought no cigarettes and there’s not a single
pack on the Moon.”

“Well, if it’s okay with you,” said Whit-
taker, “we’ll just trot diown and fetch you
up a couple cartons.”

“That’s impertinence ! Lieutenant, have

you no control over your men ? Are you cer-
tain we have emptied all storage compart-
ments of your ship?”

“Well, can’t say. Back in the tube room
we had a little layout for the return trip
but you wouldn’t want to take that away.”

“Aha f” said Slavinsky, jumping up to his
full five feet.

He pushed down a communicator button
and rattled orders into it.

Just as he finished a small bespectacled
man entered timidly, his hands full of reports.
“Ruler, I have just checked the supplies
and I find them safe. I began when the first
case entered and have just finished. The
food is not poisoned.”

“So!” said Slavinsky to Boyd. “You
knew better than to trip us up, did you.
Ha!”

“I got to send my report to the President,”
said Boyd.

“I am afraid,” said Slavinsky, “that I
shall have to attend to that. Now, to busi-
ness. You will be separated from your men,
of course. And then men we need in our
labor gangs. We have all too few men, you
see.

“But you, as an officer, according to the
usages of war, need not work outside but
may have some light job. The meteors have
been bad lately and we have lost several
people. Guard, take this officer to a cell
and put the men to work on the missile
emplacements instantly.”

“With a guard, Ruler?”

“No, blockhead. Where would they go?
Ha, ha. Yes, indeed. Where would they
go?”

Angel had been half through the act of
unscrewing his helmet. Now he hastily re-
placed it. He and Whittaker were thrust
outside and in a moment found themselves
in the hands of a non-com who was organ-
izing a work party.

A radio technician came up and adjusted
their radios to proper wave length and in a
moment they were drowned in Russian.

Angel sighed with relief and looked back
at the last of the doors which had led out
from Slavinsky. Ruler of the world, was
he?

Well,, maybe he could manage to get
some good out of it. But as for Angel, give
him control over a bar stool of the Madril-
lon and Slavinsky could keep the Moon.

Musing, he found himself in a column
and outward bound.

240,000 MILES

CHAPTER IV
Wait for the Night

I T WAS still twilight on the surface and
the earthlight was quite bright even
where the blackness of airless night lay upon
the stabbed and pitted world. The pumice-
covered plains were upheaved into abrupt
cliffs and slashed apart by ugly chasms.

It was a nightmare land where one bobbed
in levitation-like gyrations, skating over soft
and treacherous pumice bogs, plowing
through the basalt dust of rays, all under
an indigo sky.

Meteors landed soundlessly with the
enormous explosions of bombs and each
twenty-four hours millions fell. Sometimes
clouds rose up to catch the higher rays of
the s low-motion sun and hung there, twisting
the light into colors.

Man was experiencing his first contact
with the wild, garish, infinitely dangerous
power of space, billions of times as strong,
as capricious, as his ancient enemy the sea.

All was so slow, so quiet, so vastly un-
tenanted. And far away the aura-crowned
Earth hung silent, watchful in the sky,
satellite of this dead world.

Their imperishable tracks stretched be-
hind them as they drifted toward the em-
placements. It was difficult to believe that
these weird metal things were containers
for human beings.

In ages to come, in scenes like these, men
would sicken and madden and die just as the
crews of tempest-driven barques have
gripped insanity in the ages past.

Angel plowed through pumice and climbed
the final bastion of the emplacement.

The great pilotless missile was shielded
by an overhanging cliff against all but a
freak meteor. Through a small opening this
sleek white tube could fly, rushing to the
execution of perhaps a million human beings.
It stood quietly, waiting. It had all the dig-
nity of the slave machine. It could wait
Painted scarlet on its nose was —

CHICAGO

There was a buzz of cheerfulness from the
Russians as they got out of the open. Eight
of their number here had died — two from
sun, one from cold, one from suffocation,

STRAIGHT UP 52

four all at once under the smash of a thoo-
sand-ton meteor.

The mathematician amongst them sat
down and began clumsy figures with Ids
mitten-held pencil. A surveyor set up a
transit. They were about to complete the
orientation and construction of the rail tracks
for Chicago.

Angel supposed he would remain here
under guard. But the captain had ideas.

“You Yankees! There is rail material
dumped in a small crater a few hundred
yards from here. We have too few men as it
is. You will begin the task of bringing
them.”

The ground vibrated for an instant as a
meteor struck above.

Angel said, “Come on, Whittaker.”

They crawled back over the entrance bul-
wark and regained the still twilight of the
outside.

For a moment they stopped and adjusted
the radio dials on each other’s helmets.

“I hope Boyd is all right,” said Angel.

“I hope we can find the place,” said Whit-
taker.

They turned and in great leaps began to
scout for the incoming tracks of their ship.
There were many such tracks and Angel
had to take a quick orientation. Then they
found theirs, neither older nor younger than
any other tracks, and began to race back
down it, taking broad jumps of forty feet
with every step, trying to keep from sailing
sky-high. The pumice was indifferent footing
and clung to their duck shoes, leaving a slow-
ly settling stream of particles in the half-
light behind them.

They had gone five miles before they saw
anything on their backtrack. And then it
was obvious that somebody in the work party
had begun pursuit after missing them.

The pursuit was specklike, unhurried as
the weasel stalks. For who could find board
and room on the Moon?

Angel’s breath was hurtful in his lungs.
Whittaker was lagging and the officer stopped
to let him catch up. It was then he saw the
motor sled. It was coming fast, so fast he
could see it grow.

Desperately, Angel sprinted on. Ahead,
with a yell of delight, he saw the end of the
tracks and the strewn debris. He grabbed
cans one after the other until he found the
right one and hauled up its string. The
first package came to light and then the
string broke.

54 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

W HITTAKER dived headlong into the
pumice to recover it. The second
and third packages came to view.

Angel glanced back. The motor sled was
almost there. He wrenched off the ties of
the heaviest packet. Out rolled the sleek
bombs of a bazooka and the instrument itself.

Whittaker seized the barrel and placed it
over Angel’s shoulder. Angel found the
trigger and knelt, sighting on the sled. Whit-
taker thrust the first rocket in place.

The sled was quite close now, trying to
brake, throwing up lazy clouds of pumice.

The rocket trail was red flame in the twi-
light. The explosion was soundless but like
a blow on the chest. Scarlet fire sucked sled
and men into its ball and then spewed them
forth in fragments which fell lazily, drift-
ingly through the clouds.

Angel got up and would have mopped
his brow until his hand, striking against the
helmet, reminded him where he was. He
turned to find that Whittaker was already
slinging the string of grenades over his
shoulder.

From the third packet they took the Tom-
my-guns and ammunition. Armed then and
in haste they started the backtrack.

Had they been able to afford more oxygen
they would not have been so tired. Weight-
less walking took little energy and their
burdens were feathers. It was rather insecure
to feel a Tommy-gun so light.

They oriented themselves and then Angel
led off toward the chasm. They gained the
shelter of this just as a meteor seemed to
explode behind them. But it wasn’t a meteor.
It was a rocket projectile of small caliber.

They floundered down to a ledge in the
giant canyon and then, like two mountain
goats of great power, began to leap from
outcrop to outcrop.

They made time. The canyon had a bend
which would protect them until the last.

But Chicago was there.

A slug struck the bazooka barrel and
glanced soundlessly away. They instantly
pressed against a jagged break in the wall
and Angel adjusted his burdens. He looked
up and saw that he could climb.

With a motion to Whittaker to stay put,
Angel went up the basalt and found himself
crawling over an unburned meteor of glit-
tery sheen. There were diamonds in it.

On top he could crawl forward and peer
down over the edge at the Chicago rampart.
He glanced ahead and saw that there were

fifteen other emplacements but the main
entrance to the tunnels interposed.

Cautiously he laid down his weapons and
then crept to the edge again, grenades in
hand.

With sudden rapidity he teethed out pin
after pin and pitched. It was like salvo
ranging. How hard it was to estimate
throwing distances !

But the cliff wall let them billiard. One,
two, three, four they dropped into the
emplacement.

He could see space suits down there
scrambling back. Any slightest wound would
be fatal. A slug tipped his mitten and then
the first grenade went up.

The emplacement rocked. Four blasts
belched out stone. The imperfectly held
rocks folded in and an avalanche began a
leisurely curtain into the bottomless canyon.
There was no sign of the Chicago entrance.

While particles still drifted, Angel waved
to Whittaker and they swiftly resumed their
goat travel. The huge steel faces of the
main tunnels remained solid and impassive,
proof even against meteors.

No shot came.

Whittaker cautiously drew up to their
faces until he could touch them. He found
no chink in them.

“Up!” said Angel.

They scrambled and leaped and finally
came to the plain. A rocket missile shook
the ground near them and covered them with
dust. They dived headlong into a crater.

Whittaker lifted his head above the rim.
“Emplacement to repel ground troops. On
that crater rim.”

“They must keep one manned continually
as an alert,” said Angel. He thoughtfully
sat down. Somewhere a meteor shook
ground. The tip of the last rocket explosion
was still rising, catching the sunlight in a
turning glitter.

“The only available entrance into the tun-
nels must be through that guarded emplace-
ment,” said Angel. He looked up. “There’s
very little sun left. It will be dark in half
an hour.”

Whittaker nodded inside his lucite casque.
“It’ll get awful dark, lootenant.”

“Fine.” said Angel. “Take bearings on
the emplacement from the two rims of the
crater. A man could get hurt stumbling
around here without lights.”

Whittaker got busy with the engineer’s
companion, an azimuth compass. It worked

240,000 MILES

fairly well, though heaven knows where the
magnetic pole of the Moon might be. He
made a small chart of prominent land marks
which would be easy to find in the dark.

Now and then a rocket would explode
along the crater rim but such was the gravity
problem that the alerts did not attempt the
mortar effect.

Angel put a piece of chocolate into the
miniature space lock of his helmet, closed
the outer door, opened the inner one with
his chin and worried it dog-fashion out
of the compartment. He ate it reflectively.

“I hope Boyd is all right,” he said.

CHAPTER V
Now I Lay Me . . .

D ARK came as if someone had shut off
an electric light in a coal cellar. The
moment was well chosen. Dark wouldn’t
come in such a fashion to this place again for
twenty-nine and a half days, nor would it
be light again until half that period had
passed.

Soon it would get very cold, down to
minus two hundred Centigrade. These space
suits were designed for that but they used
up their batteries very quickly despite the
eight thicknesses of asbestos on their out-
sides.

“Let’s go,” said Angel. “They may try
a foray on their own.” The earthlight was
wiped out by their colored helmets.

As nearly as they could calculate they
covered the proper chart distances in a wide
triangle which would bring them up the side
of the alert post.

Soundlessly they made their debouch,
fortunately having to take no care of tum-
bled meteor fragments beyond falling. And
a fall was far from fatal.

They came to the slope and groped their
way up.

Something round bumped Angel. He felt
it and found it to be a metal pole. Some
sort of aerial or light stand. He wondered
if the Russians had shifted to other helmets
which would permit them to see him in the
earthlight. That he was still alive made him
think not.

He felt the manmade smoothness of the
pit edge and drew back. He stopped Whit-

STRAIGHT UP 55

taker and toothed out the pin of a grenade.

Rapidly they hurled four. The pumice
shook like jelly under them under four ex-
plosions.

They dived over the edge. Only one Rus-
sian was there and nothing much of him
was remaining.

“They tried a foray,” said Angel. He
threw on his chest lights and the metal
escape door gleamed.

They lifted it swiftly and plunged down
the steps, closing it behind them. An airlock
was before them.

"Keep your helmet on,” said Angel. He
went through.

At the third door they paused and took
the safeties off their Tommy-guns. They
went through alertly. But no one barred
their way and they entered the main tunnel.
To their right they could see their big ports
beyond which stood their ship.

Supplies were scattered along the walls.
Space suits hung on pegs. Weapons were
racked.

“Come along,” said Angel.

They confronted the first series of doors
.which led to Slavinsky. In the first, second
and third chambers they found no one. The
fourth was locked.

Angel waved Whittaker back and from the
second chamber sighted with the bazooka on
the locked door.

“Look alive in case anybody comes,” said
Angel.

Whittaker placed the missile and then
stepped aside, Tommy-gun ready.

The trajectory of the rocket flamed out.
Smoke and dust dissolved the far door. The
echoing concussion buffeted them, unheard
through their suits.

Angel was up with a rush, cleaving the
billows of cordite. His charge brought him
straight into the inner sanctum.

And there, pistol gripped but flung back
was Slavinsky.

The black eyes glared. The yellow teeth
showed. Whatever he yelled Angel could
not hear. The pistol jerked and a cartridge
empty flipped up.

Angel chopped clown with the Tommy-gun.

And discovered the engineering fact that
metal still fifty degrees below zero Centigrade
does not work well. The firing pin fell short.

The Iucite casque fanned out a gauzy
pattern but the slug did not penetrate, leav-
ing only a blot.

Angel threw the gun straight at Slavin-

56 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

sky's head. Slavinsky ducked the weapon.
Bwt he did not duck the chair which fol-
lowed it. He staggered back, losing his
grip on the pistol.

In Angel’s radio, Whittaker’s voice yelled,
“Three Ruskies are cornin’!”

“Use a grenade!” cried Angel. And he
flung himself bodily upon Slavinsky.

The metal mittens were clumsy and could
not find the general’s throat. Slavinsky got
a heel into Angel’s belt and catapulted him
with a smash against the ceiling.

Angel flung himself back. Slavinsky’s
naked torso was nothing to grip.

“Get him!” howled Whittaker. “They
got us penned in !”

Angel grabbed for the sling of the Tom-
my-gun. The weapon leaped up, amazingly
light. But it had mass and mass counted.
He drove the butt through Slavinsky’s guard,
drove in the teeth, the nose, brought sheets
of blood into the eyes, crushed the jutting
jaw and obliterated the face.

He spun about to find Whittaker holding
a bulging door. Angel reached into his kit
and pulled out a flask.

“Let them in!”

“They’re in!” roared Whittaker.

The bottle of Lewisite exploded against
the wall beside the first Russian, spraying
out over his naked skin.

The rest plowed forward. They plowed,
caught their throats, strangled and dropped.

A NGEL turned and popped a space cloak
and helmet on the remains of Slavin-
sky. He wanted him alive before the gas
reached clear across the chamber. “Stay
here,” said Angel. And he plunged out.

He found Boyd in a cell, safe enough,
carefully garbed in his space helmet.

“It was horrible,” said Boyd. “The fools
grabbed those cigarettes like you said they
would. They distributed all of them to every-
body but Slavinsky and he hits marijuana in-
stead. And then they started to light up.
Even them that didn’t get to take a puff
got it from the rest. Lootenant, don’t never
feed me no Lewisite cigarette!”

“Anybody else you know of back here?”
said Angel sweetly.

“Whoever survived rushed up to where
you came in. Geez, lootenant, what if that
had missed?”

“We’d be working in St. Peter’s army,”
grinned Angel. “Keep that helmet on. This
whole place must be full of gas.”

They went back to Slavinsky’s office and
from there made way into the communica-
tions center.

Boyd set the wave lengths and called.

When they had Washington as though
they were Russians, Angel took the aircraft
code from his kit and began to give them
news that Russia wouldn’t know in time.

“We have met Slavinsky,” he coded. “I
am in possession of this objective and re-
quire reinforcements immediately. The ene-
my is dead except for stragglers outside who
will die. Tell the highest in command to
send force quickly. We are victorious !”

* * * * *

Whittaker put an affectionate hand on
Angel’s shoulder and shook it gently. Angel
felt terrible.

“Lieutenant,” said the surgeon, “you’d
better come around. It’s nearly time.”

The watch on his wrist gleamed as hugely
as a steeple clock and said, “Zero three
fifty-one” in an unnecessarily loud voice.

He was dressed somehow and they shoved
him into the corridor, which was at least
half the distance to Mars. A potted palm
fell down and became a general.

“Fine morning, fine morning, lieutenant.
You look fit. Fit, sir. No clouds and a
splendid full Moon.”

The aide was brilliant. Angel knew him
well. The aide had been an Upperclassman
when Angel was at the Point.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the aide sidewise
to the general. “But we’ve just time to brief
him as we ride down. Here, this way, lieu-
tenant.”

When they were in the car the aide said,
“You have been thoroughly briefed before.
But there must be a quick resume unless
you think you are thoroughly cognizant of
your duties.”

Angel would have answered but all that
came out was a groan.

“You will phone all data back to us. Our
tests show that the wave can travel much
farther than that. Anything you may think
important, beyond maps and perhaps geology,
you are permitted to note and report.

“Under no circumstances are you to at-
tempt to change any control settings in your
ship. All instructions are in this packet.”

Angel shoved the brown packet into his
pocket with a twinge of pain. What a hang-
over. And what a dreadfully confused night
he had had !

01 MILES STRAIGHT UP 57

Colonel Anthony got him out of the car,
through the crowd and up the ladder.

Whittaker was standing there, indolently
chewing tobacco. Metal glinted behind them
in the interior. Commander Dawson of ‘the
Navy prowled around the ship and then went
to take his post.

“You’ve got a week to sober up, my boy,”
said Anthony.

“I’ll be fine,” said Angel, managing a
smile.

Angel stepped from the ladder to the plat-
form.

" Board t” shouted Dawson.

Floodlights and cameras and upraised

faces. There was a hushed, awed stillness.

Boyd had a big pair of glasses fixed upon
the full Moon. He was adjusting them to
get the proper focus. Suddenly Angel
grabbed the glasses away and stabbed them
at the brilliant orb.

With a little sigh of relief he gave the
glasses back and with a wave of his hand to
the crowd, entered the ship.

The door closed. The spectators were
waved hurriedly back.

There was a crash of jets, a flash of metal.

The space ship was gone.

In spite of nightmares and hangovers, Man
had begun his first flight into outer space.

Wondsih OddiiisLh

W HEN you kick the gong around you are literally doing a messy job on the atoms it contains,
according to Doctors B. L. Averback and B. E. Warren of the Massachusetts Institute of
Technology. The atomic structure of any metal is markedly disarranged by a hard blow. Metal
blocks were recently placed in an X-ray beam to measure the amounts of atomic energy radiated.
Those blocks which had been damaged by blows scattered their energy far less evenly than
unharmed ones.

O FFERED by Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer, famed atom man and director of the Institute for
Advanced Study, Princeton, is a new ’'timetable” for the coming of age of atomic power.
Within three years, he predicts, at least two reactors will have been built. Their experimental
phase will be over within a decade. And it will take at least twenty years for atomic power to
replace current water and mineral sources in any appreciable degree.

N O bar to space-ship navigation is the Einstein equivalence principle, says John J. Gilvarry of
North American Aviation, Inc. Others have advanced the theory that an astrogator, whose
instruments proved useless in space, without radio connections to Earth or windows, would be
helpless according to Einstein. Mr. Gilvarry points out that a solution to his problem is possible
by application of formulae in use to determine the fuel cut-olf point in the V-2 rocket.

D OCTOR George Gamow, mathematical physicist of George Washington University, has used
recently-learned knowledge of the properties of elemental atomic nuclei to determine the
proportionate age of the galaxies. According to Dr. Gamow, the galaxies were formed from
compressed neutionic gas and our universe took just about one tenth of its present age to form
itself.

E XPERTS who make their living by guessing how much a man or woman weighs won’t have
to worry, but it is of interest to scientists that a human being weighs more on hot days
than on cold ones. The difference, for a 150-pound man, amounts to about a quarter of an ounce.

R HYNODON TYPICUS, or the whale shark, is the largest living fish known to science. It has
been known to grow to a length of fifty feet, which is good sized even for many species of
whales, which of course are not fish but mammals. Unlike most of the rest of his ferocious
species the whale shark is not ferocious. We still prefer flounder!

Tha boy looked at Mr.
Fraakltm wfco was Mdiig
wbat via natty ku sfc«U

Schizophrenic

By NOEL LOOMIS

OMMIE BASSFORD was con-
cerned over the steady frown on his
father’s forehead and a little bit hurt
because his father hadn’t noticed him for
at least an hour. At the age of three, Tom-
mie didn't understand a lot of things, al-
though sometimes he felt them very keen-
ly. Sometimes a person's unpleasant mood
would be more painful to him than a
spanking — well, that is to say, an ordinary
spanking.

He had heard his father say only last
night, “It’s a chance to make a million— if I
can trust him. And it won’t take but a
month,” he had said wistfully. “We could
move up to the mountains or down to the
seashore. You wouldn’t have to worry about
Tommie getting picked on by the big boys
next door, and you wouldn’t have to quit
playing bridge to come home when you lose
your five dollars.” His father had looked
at mother fondly. Then he had sobered.

Amazing little Tommie Bassford not only splits into more
than onn personality mentally — he does it physically, too!

58

SCHIZOPHRENIC 59

"The only thing is — if Pickens isn’t on the
level, then we can lose what little business
we have, just as fast.”

Tommie thought maybe he could help his
father. He gathered up his whole sun-energy
set from the center of the big front window
where he liked best to play. He pulled it
across the floor in quantum jerks, moving
backward in a sitting position, pushing him-
self by digging his heels into the floor and
then straightening his legs. That way he
could make it all in one trip, hugging the
sun-energy set to his stomach until he
jammed his back against his father’s chair.

He was disappointed that his father did
not look down at him and perhaps pat him
on the head. It was most unusual. But Tom-
mie set up his blocks and tfien pressed tlje
button and watched the reactions. start all
over again. He watched cai^pn 12 go into
nitrogen and then into oxygenisand then into
nitrogen 15. Up to that point it went very
well, but when those four hydrogen nuclei,
represented by four glowing green balls, were
supposed to combine into one helium nucleus,
something went wrong. They didn’t com-
bine right. They smacked into each other
with a violent report and disappeared.

A T THIS moment Tommie’s father came
to life with a startled jump. He said
a word that Tommie, at his age, had never
yet dared to say except to himself, because
even though he was a prodigy, his mother
didn’t allow him to say da— he caught it just
in time.

Tommie was glad, anyway, that his father
had quit staring at the paper. Tommie stood
up to receive the gentle pat on the head that
he usually got from his father’s big hand, but
as he turned around, astonishingly enough,
his father smacked him on the seat, and,
through his red linen shorts, it stung.

“Will you please take those confounded
atom blocks and your one-seventy I. Q. into
the back yard or somewhere, so a man can
have some peace ?” His father tried to sound
exasperated, but Tommie didn’t think he
really meant it.

But Tommie got on his knees and gathered
the whole set to his stomach and hoped there
wasn’t any dirt on them to get on his white
waist. Then he went out, very disappointed
and even a little hurt — in fact, his eyes felt a
little watery — because he thought if dad
would tell him what was the trouble, he could
help dad figure out something.

Mother was showing talky Mrs. Jones the
new disintichute that disposed of everything
that was waste — soiled clothes, dirty dishes,
used silverware. Tommie wondered why
they called it silver. Certainly there wasn’t
any silver in it, as everything was plastic
now. Everything, that is, but very special
things, like his red linen pants.

Mother smiled at him vaguely, and Mrs.
Jones smiled too, but Mrs. Jones had a sharp,
searching look in her eyes that made it seem
as if she was trying to find something wrong
so she could punish him. Tommie didn’t
care for her. She wouldn’t have any right
to send him into scrub his hands again.

“Come here, Tommie,” she said in a high
cooing voice, and made a move for him. But
"Tbnintie felt a strange, almost violent repug-
nance toward vher. He backed away and
went sideward toward the kitchen door. It
bpened, and he lifted his feet high to get
over the sill and very nearly lost his balance
doing so.

That annoyed him, too. Being a prodigy
was all right if one had a body to go with it.
When a boy had a ten-year-old mind it was
irritating to have a three-year-old body as
clumsy as the body of a baby.

He lost an orange-colored electron just
outside of the rloor, but he let it lie there
for a moment. Mrs. Jones was too close to the
door. Maybe Mrs. Jones would go back
into the front room where dad was worrying
so much. Secretly Tommie chuckled. Dad
didn’t like Mrs. Jones any more than Tom-
mie did. He’d send her home in a hurry.

Tommy set up his blocks and got some
spare nuclei out of the box and started the
reaction going again. It puzzled him a lot,
why the hydrogen nuclei didn’t combine
properly. There must have been some un-
usual influence somewhere. In the two days
he had had it, he hadn’t been able to com-
plete the carbon cycle once.

Bennie, next door, had a set, and when
Bennie tried it, it always worked fine. Bennie
never had lost a nucleus by explosion. Maybe
there was something wrong with Tommy’s
set. He’d get Bennie to try it — and maybe
Bennie would let Tommie try his set.

Tommie sat there in the white sand, watch-
ing the interlaced orange-glowing orbits of
the electrons and the broad green paths of
the hydrogen nuclei. The sun was warm on
Tommie’s back and the Baltimore orioles
were singing in the elm tree almost over his
head. Across the high electronic fence he

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

60

could hear the bigger boys playing ball in
Bennie’s yard.

S UDDENLY the four hydrogen nuclei,
flashing at half light-speed in their four
orbits, went together and disappeared in
the usual green flash and with the cus-
tomary loud report. Tommie was thankful
the explosion didn’t sound as loud out in
the yard as it had in the front room under
dad’s chair, although secretly Tommie liked
it better in the house because of that very
fact.

The only thing was that dad wasn’t in a
very good mood today.

Tommie watched the orioles sweeping
around the tree-top, and the papa oriole’s
orange plumage, flashing in the sunlight, re-
minded him of the orbit of an electron. Then
he remembered that he bad dropped an elec-
tron just outside the kitchen door.

He got up laboriously — he was so solid his
legs had a hard time holding him up, some-
times. He went to the door and leaned over
to pick up the electron. He heard the swish
of the door as it opened and then the high
cooing of Mrs. Jones’ vo>ce as she bore down
on him.

“Oh, that dear little boy. I simply must
squeeze him.”

Tommie stood up suddenly, so suddenly
he lost his balance and sat down on the grass.
Mrs. Jones reached for him, and that strange
feeling of repugnance he had for her grew
so powerful that it almost smothered him.
He squirmed to get away from her, but he
was trapped. She touched him, and his body
quit squirming because mother wouldn’t like
it, but in his mind he writhed. It almost
seemed that he could tear himself away from
his body.

Then he did! Just how he didn’t know,
but suddenly he was standing a couple of feet
to one side, watching Mrs. Jones holding the
arms of his first body. He looked down at
himself. Yes, be was in a body, too, and he
was wearing red linen pants. This body didn’t
seem quite as solid as his first, but solid
enough. He looked up at Mrs. Jones trium-
phantly.

He was surprised to see her drawing back
with her mouth open like the hole in the dis-
intichute. Her eyes were sticking out and her
eyebrows were almost uo to her hair.

“Oh ! He-he split !” she shrieked. "He-he’s
got two bodies !”

Tommie was very amused at her antics. He

looked over and smiled at his mother but she
too was staring at him with something like
horror.

Then Mrs. Jones did something Tommie
couldn’t understand. She went to his mother
and put her arms around her and cried and
said, “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry for you. I
didn’t know you had this burden. All of us
have our crosses to bear — the atomic age
has left such dreadful marks on civilization —
but, oh my dear !” She let out a hearty bawl,
and Tommie quit being amused and began
to be very disgusted. She looked at him from
under one arm, half afraid, he thought, and
then she turned back to Tommie’s mother.
“My dear! A schizo — schizo — ”

“Schizophrenic,” said Tommie Number
One helpfully.

“Split personality,” Mrs. Jones sputtered..
“But physically! Oh, my da — ”

Tommie’s mother was disengaging herself.
“Why don’t you go home and make yourself
a nice cup of hot tea, with maybe just a
touch of — ” She hesitated.

“Arsenic,” Tommie thought promptly. He
became one little boy again.

“Ar — ” She caught herself and looked at
Tommie, horrified. “Just a touch of brandy,”
she said.

Mrs. Jones looked bewildered. Oh, this
was fun, thought Tommie. He’d known for
some time that he could mentally suggest
things for his parents to say, but he’d nev-
er tried it so openly before. He knew one
thing, though. He’d better be plenty careful
with this power, or he’d get walloped. In
fact as he thought about it, he didn’t feel too
sure about the arsenic deal.

M RS. JONES retired in confusion, and
Tommie went back to the sun-energy
set. But when his father and mother
were both outside, and mother was saying
as if she were shocked, “Yes, be definitely
split in two. I saw him with my own eyes.”
His father looked serious — then he chu-
ckled. “No doubt you would have done the
same thing, if you could have. But I wonder
why.” He took Tommie’s arm, somewhat
gingerly. “Hm." He took the other arm. “He
doesn’t do it when we touch him. It must be
her repellent personality, or some phase of it.
Insincerity, do you suppose?”

Tommie himself guessed that was it. Mrs.
Jones never said what she meant, and never
meant what she said. That was what made
Tommie writhe.

SCHIZOPHRENIC

His mother and father talked it over, and
in the end they didn’t seem too worried about
him. “We’ll see,” said his father, “what de-
velops.” Then his father began to walk
around the yard, stretching and sunning like
an orange oriole. He finally sat down in the
lawn-chair, and Tommie’s mother sat beside
him, and that worried look came back on his
father’s face.

“I wish I knew what to say,” he. murmured
absently. “It might be the chance of a life-
time. The man claims he’s got a tube that
will make it possible to send television around
the earth. It’s worth a lot of millions if it
works.”

“Can’t you test it ?”

Dad shook his head. “It would take
twenty-five thousand to test it. We’d need a
lot of equipment. And you can’t take it to
any of the big manufacturers, because you’d
lose it fast if they discovered it would work.
That’s where the gamble comes in. I’d have
to back it, sight unseen.”

“There are lots of gyp artists going
around,” his mother suggested.

“Yes, but darn it, Gwynne, once in a while
there’s the real thing drops in your lap, too.
Remember Clarence Fisher? He ran into the
same kind of deal — a naive fellow from the
country somewhere, had a new idea for auto-
matic heat control in an electric circuit that
did away with contacts. Something brand
new. Clarence took a chance, and look at him
now. Winters in Florida, summers in Aca-
pulco. No worries about anything. Gosh!”

Tommie thought he’d rather live in the
mountains, where he could smell the pine-
trees.

“Can’t you check up on Mr. Franklin?”

“I’ve checked. Not really much back-
ground. Claims he’s been roaming a lot.
Could be, too. The whole deal is, I guess,
we’ve got a good little business making ordi-
nary television tubes, and it’s a question
whether we want to be sure of a decent liv-
ing or take a chance on a fortune.”

“Maybe it’s better to be safe,” said Tom-
mie’s mother.

“Well—”

Tommie had never seen dad squirm before,
but certainly he was squirming now — men-
tally, that is. Tommie felt sorry for him, but
he went ahead making a solar system in the
sand, because he wanted to hear more. He
felt sure he could help dad if he could find
out more about it.

“The worst of it is,” his dad went on, “if

61

our competitor should get hold of a tube like
this, it might even put us out of business.”
His mother sighed. “It’s a problem,” she
remarked sadly.

“It sure as h — it sure is. It all adds up to
this : I have nothing against him, although
he’s not very solid from a standpoint of
background. It could be the real thing. Clar-
ence Fisher’s was. Maybe I’m just too con-
servative — too scared.”

“You’ve checked his blueprints ?”

“Yes, and I can’t find anything wrong. It
looks sound. That’s the worst of it.”

“When do you have to let him know?”
“He’s coming here at eight o’clock to-
night.”

Tommie’s mother got up from the grass,
“Do what you think best, Howard.” She
went inside.

L ITTLE TOMMIE was glad the man
was coming at eight o’clock, so he could
be in on it. He didn’t have to go to bed until
eight-thirty, and maybe if they got interested
he could get by until nine o'clock, by keeping
quiet.

He got up and went to his dad’s chair, but
dad didn't notice him. Dad got up and fol-
lowed his mother into the house. Tommie
went back to gather up his toys. It would
soon be time for the sun to go down, anyway.

He got the sun-energy set in his arms, and
then he had an idea. He went through the
back and over to Bennie’s. Bennie was four.

“Will you try my set and let me try yours ?”
asked Tommie.

Bennie looked down from his half a head
of tallness. “I guess so.”

They traded. Bennie started up the cycle
in Tommie’s set. When he was halfway
through, Tommie sat down and started Ben-
nie’s set. But he watched as the four hydro-
gen nuclei of his own set went together and
formed a glowing blue helium nucleus.

Then he watched Bennie’s set between his
chubby legs. Presently the hydrogen nuclei,
swirling in their orbits, ran together — and
there was a flash of green light and an explo-
sion. The four nuclei disappeared.

Tommie felt bad. Bennie was indignant
“What’s the big idea — making them ex-
plode ?” he demanded.

Tommie didn’t understand.

“ Y ou must have some kind of electricity in
you,” said Bennie, “that makes ’em explode.”
Tommie thought about that. Yes, there
must be something about him. Maybe the

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

C2

same strange force that enabled him to sug-
gest words to his mother and that had made
it possible this afternoon for him to split —
maybe that did something to the delicately
balanced nuclei.

“Look,” said Tommie. "I owe you four
hydrogens, but I can’t pay now, because
then I won’t have any left. I’ll pay you to-
morrow. Is that okay?”

Bennie was dubious at first, but he thought
about it and decided that would be all right.
Tommie went back home with plenty to think
about — so much, in fact, that through din-
ner he was quite silent as his father and
mother worried about Mr. Franklin and his
new television tube.

Mr. Franklin came promptly at eight, and
they all went into the front room as soon as
mother threw the dishes down the chute.
Then they had coffee, and Tommie began to
worry. Nobody said anything about business
for a long time.

Tommie went and got his sun-energy set
and settled himself under the arm of his dad’s
chair. Then he looked up expectantly for a
pat on the head, but instead of that his father
was staring at him. Tommie remembered
how the hydrogen nuclei had misbehaved, so
he got to his feet again and went for his
chlorophyl kit. He set that up and turned on
the little artificial sun and then just watched.
It was fun to see the sunlight soak into the
green liquid in the test tubes, and come out
at the bottom as bubbles of carbon dioxide.
It was quiet, too.

“So you think,” his father was saying,
“that we should have fifty thousand to start
with.”

“We should have about twenty-five cash,
and twenty-five in reserve,” Mr. Franklin
said. He was a very handsome man.

“How long will it take us to get into pro-
duction ?”

“That all depends on you,” said Mr.
Franklin. “The only thing we have to worry
about is getting the germanium. That stuff is
scarce, but I think if we take the cash, I know
where we can lay hands on a couple of hun-
dred pounds. It will take about ten thousand
to swing that end of the deal.”

J UST about then Tommie felt his father
was beginning to squirm. “What do you
think ?” he asked Tommie’s mother.

She shook her head. “You’re the business
man, Howard. That is for you to decide.”

Mr. Franklin laughed pleasantly, “That is

a very wise observation, madam. To many
women try to run their husbands’ affairs. I
say you are very wise.”

But Tommie felt something else. His
mother was troubled, too. Tommie slowed
the chlorophyl cycle so he could watch the
light reflect from the nitrogen molecules at
the bottom. He wondered why his mother
was troubled. Tommie frowned.

Then Mr. Franklin took some papers from
his inside coat pocket. “I have the contract,
the way your attorney approved it,” he said
casually. “We might as well get that part of
it settled. You don’t need to put up any
money till tomorrow.” He laughed, and
Tommie’s ears pricked up. That laugh sound-
ed strange. “I'll take you on faith,” Mr.
Franklin said, and handed the papers to his
father.

Mr. Bassford frowned and began to read.
Tommie got up and stood against one knee.
There were a lot of typewritten pages, mostly
with ‘whereases’ and ‘parties of the second
part.’ Tommie squeezed close, looking at Mr.
Franklin, but his father didn’t put his arms
around him. “Go away, Tommie. Go play,”
he said.

Tommie was hurt. He stared at Mr. Frank-
lin and he was puzzled at the strange look
in Mr. Franklin’s eyes as Mr. Franklin
stared at him.

Presently Tommie’s father looked up. “I
guess that’s it,” he said.

Mr. Franklin was already handing him a
pen. It was one of those new eternity pens
with a built-in radiant light. Tommie edged
closer. His father took it. He laid the papers
on the writing-arm of the chair and poised
the pen for an instant, made a flourish in
the air, and started to write.

Tommie was bending over to watch the
little light. His dad stared at him in that
contemplative way and said, "You’re jiggling
me, Tommie. Why don’t you go over and sit
on Mr. Franklin’s lap while I sign the pa-
pers?” Tommie didn’t want to sit on Mr.
Franklin's lap, but from the look in his dad’s
eyes he knew it was a command. He turned
around.

Mr. Franklin was reaching for him. “Here,
little man, come here to me,” he said. “I’ll
hold you while your father signs the paper
that will make us all millionaires.” He
reached out to pat Tommie on the head.

Tommie wasn’t very clear as to what a
millionaire was, but he knew one thing —
he didn’t want Mr. Franklin patting him on

SCHIZOPHRENIC 63

the head. He squirmed away, toward his dad.
Mr. Franklin reached for him surprisingly
fast. In fact, his movement was so quick
you could hardly see it. Tommie dodged
again, and this time he was in a little panic.
He felt that same repugnance he had felt for
Mrs. Jones. He didn’t want Mr. Franklin
to touch him.

But Mr. Franklin got him by the arm. He
held hard, and it hurt, while Mr. Franklin
was smiling with a sort of stiff mouth. “Now,
now, come and sit on my lap, little man.”

T OMMIE tried to twist away. Mr.

Franklin held hard. Tommie squirmed.
He couldn’t get loose from Mr. Franklin’s
grip. He squirmed harder. He broke free.
That is, he projected himself to one side and
looked at Mr. Franklin holding what was
really his shell.

Mr. Franklin was startled, but he didn’t
hesitate. “Oh, a schizo,” he said, and some-
thing came into his face that was frightening.
He snatched at Tommie’s second self with
one arm. He caught Tommie by the belt on
his red linen pants and pulled the second one
toward him.

Tommie split again. Now he stood off to
one side and watched, a little fearfully. Mr.
Franklin was getting pretty angry. But
Tommie’s father spoke up. “Why not just
let him go?” he said, and the way he said it,
it was a command that he expected to be
obeyed. Mr. Franklin looked up and slowly
turned Tommie loose. Tommie straightened
his belt and his three selves went back to-
gether.

His father was handing the papers back
to Mr. Franklin. “I’ve changed my mind,”
he said. “I’ll take a chance on being a small
business man.”

It was rather unpleasant for a few minutes, ;
but Mr. Franklin left, with his papers in his
pocket.

Tommie’s father was sitting back in the big
chair with a half smile on his face. “So a
phony makes Tommie split, eh.” He
chuckled. “Tommie’s right. Not that I would
blame any man for not particularly caring
for children. That’s a man’s privilege. But I
didn’t like that ugly gleam in Franklin’s
eyes when he thought Tommie was going to
interfere.”

Tommie was pretty much unstrung. He
sat down under the arm of his father’s chair
and pressed the button that started the car-
bon cycle.

“I’m glad we found out in time, Howard,”
said his mother. “But what about Tommie?”
She sounded worried. “Do you think — ”

"It’s probably nothing serious, and prob-
ably nothing that we can do anything about.
If he wants to split when un-nice people come
around, that’s his business. Anyway, he’ll
probably outgrow it in a few years. Most of
them do.

Tommie watched the four hydrogen nuclei
go together, and instinctively he drew back
for the explosion. But there wasn’t any.
The four went together into the blue ball that
meant a helium nucleus. Tommie clapped
his hands. They had worked right this time.
Maybe his body energy had been drained by
the double split until it didn’t affect them any
more.

Tommie’s mother looked at him softly.
Tommie looked back softly. Then he sidled
up against his father's leg. His father reached
down and caught him around the chest and
squeezed him hard.

It made Tommie very happy. “Dad,” he
said, “what’s a phony?”

COMING IN THE NEXT ISSUE

The Weakness of Rvog

An Amazing Novelet by JAMES BUSH and DAMON KNIGHT

O F T H E
AC AT H O N

AGATHON: (From Greek, agathos, good, and thanatos, death.) Employed briefly during the pre-Toring era.
When the deatk of a citizen of interest to the Lodges was predicted by his biostat (q.v.), the Council arranged
secretly for the demise to occur under the circumstances considered most beneficial to the world. After the per-
sonality factors of all principals concerned had been integrated and the death plan (or agathon) determined, it was
carried out by the local preceptor.

Immediately after the famed Foltansbee case, however, agathon practice was suppressed and all biostats
destroyed. — Encyclopedia of Freudianism, Naida's Rev. Vol. 1, p. 14, Budapest, 1983.

64

a novelet
by

CHARLES L.
HARNESS

Freudian Toring denies the

infallibility of the machine that predicts

death — and ventures an experiment to challenge mankind I

T HE little man, Blanchard, said with
no trace of defiance or apology: "My
daughter Naida is a moron.”

Behind the desk Toring, the Freudian,
shifted slightly under the long gray cape
that covered his entire body, and turned his
eyes from Blanchard to the girl huddled in

the wheel chair. She was perhaps eighteen
or twenty, dressed neatly in tweeds. Her
face was averted, and the Freudian could
see only a pale-olive cheek, hidden partly
by slender fingers and dark brown hair.

He sighed and shook his head. "We can-
not increase native intelligence. But you

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

66

didn’t bring your daughter here for that,
anyway.”

“No, I didn’t.” Blanchard’s voice was
double-edged with both pleading and threat.
“Something has scared her, and the Lodge
has got to assign an analyst and straighten
her out.”

“So? What do you think frightened her?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion. It dates
from a couple of weeks ago, when her older
sister, Maillon, had an operation. Simple
thing, nothing to worry anyone. Naida vis-
isted Maillon’s hospital room the evening
after the operation.”

“They were alone ?”

“So far as I know. I was to come by later
and pick up Naida. Well, a nurse called me
from the hospital. Naida had been found
lying in the corridor — like this. She hasn’t
spoken since.”

“Had she been in her sister’s room?”
“We think so. Maillon couldn’t say. She
had been given a sedative in the early after-
noon and she was unconscious during the
whole time. But we found Naida’s hat on a
table in the room.”

“Who else had been in there?”

“Again, we can’t be sure, but Maillon’s
husband, Pickerel Follansbee, might have
been. He inquired minutely at the desk that
afternoon as to Maillon’s condition, but he
denies going up.”

Toring’s eyes widened imperceptibly.
Blanchard had taken no pains to conceal
the hate in his voice.

“Now,” continued the patron, "are you
going to give me an analyst?”

The Freudian’s face was troubled. He did
not answer immediately.

“Toring,” Blanchard said, “you are the
preceptor of this Lodge. It is within your
power to do this small thing for me. I
want my child back !”

Toring regarded him gravely. “I cannot
assign an analyst for at least four months.”

B LANCHARD, accustomed to the auto-
cratic rule of two million employees
in both hemispheres, sat back thoughtfully in
the green leather chair. He had been pre-
pared for a preliminary rebuff, an attempt
to put his daughter on a waiting list, and
Toring’s statement did not surprise him.
The ceiling fluors glinted from his bald head
as he studied the man who withheld the key
to his happiness. The battle was hardly
joined. In a few minutes he would know his

opponent’s weak points, and he would strike.
At least, that always worked in the busi-
ness world.

But these Freudians . . . He was never
sure of himself around them. They all looked
alike. There was some rumor that they
underwent painful plastic surgery and skele-
tal modifications on entering the Lodges, so
that they all reflected the same gray sym-
pathetic anonymity. But, they must get fed
up, sometimes !

He pulled out a cigar, bit off the end, and
lit up with more confidence than he felt.

“Toring, my industrial holdings in the
United States are assessed at a little over
eight billion dollars; abroad, at nearly two
hundred million. If you’ll start on Naida
immediately, I’ll convey my total American
holdings to you and leave the country when
you’ve finished with her.”

The Freudian was silent a long time. “I
believe you would really do it,” he mused,
appraising the magnate with something bor-
dering on pity. “Your offer disturbs me,
but possibly not in the way you think. I
have no use for eight billion dollars. As a
matter of fact I don’t think any money has
passed through my hands for some years.
Despite your personal feelings, your daugh-
er must take her turn.”

Rather idly, Blanchard blew a smoke ring
toward the ceiling fluor. In moments of
greatest stress he was always cool — and
thinking.

“You are a celibate, of course, Toring.
But you must have a family you’d like to
benefit. Parents? The senior Torings?
Brothers and sisters?”

“Theoretically, Mr. Blanchard, a Freudian
has no family. I had a father and two broth-
ers living when I entered the Lodges, but
now I have no ties at all. My father knows
only that his youngest son is a Freudian,
somewhere. He couldn’t possibly recognize
me if he saw me. Anyway they are all in-
dependently wealthy. And incidentally ‘Tor-
ing’ is not a family name, but a pseudonym.”

“Perhaps my persistence is obnoxious to
you,” said Blanchard, somewhat uncertainly.
“However, here’s another thought. Don’t
you have a few hours during the day that
you ordinarily devote to rest and relaxation?
Would it hurt you very much to give up a
little of that precious time to curing my
daughter?”

The other smiled faintly. “How old do
you think I am?”

67

FRUITS OF THE AGATHON

“What’s that got to do with it? Well —
fifty'?”

“I’m thirty-five. I haven’t slept in ten
years. Not since I was assigned here from
the Freudian University in Budapest. For
twenty-three hours a day I sit in on psycho-
analytic case work. The other hour I use
for ‘Follansbee sleep.’ I have no leisure
whatever.”

For the first time Blanchard admitted the
possibly of defeat. He coughed to cover
the lines of worry gathering in his face, and
his daughter jumped nervously and looked
about the room with frightened eyes. It
suddenly occurred to Toring that she was
beautiful.

“It’s all right, dear,” said her father re-
assuringly, pulling the robe up over her lap.
“I’m here.”

He turned back to Toring, hesitant to de-
mand the thing that was in his mind, yet
determined to ieave nothing untried.

“As T understand Follansbee sleep, isn’t
that simply a process of blood renewal, which
takes about an hour?”

“That’s right. Dr. John Follansbee —
Pickerel’s father, incidentally — established
years ago that sleep was merely a symptom
of boredom induced and accentuated by an
excess of waste products, chiefly lactic acid,
in the blood stream. Tf we remove our lactic-
acid-laden blood and replace it with glyco-
gen-charged blood, we kill fatigue, and there
remains only the psychological inducements
to sleep — boredom, habit, and the escape
complex that plagues us all. A determined
mind can overcome these phantom ob-
stacles.”

“I see. You have, then, once a day a free
hour — when you are changing blood,” in-
sisted Blanchard.

“A free hour?”

“Free in the sense that you aren’t occu-
pied with patients.”

S LOWLY the Freudian shook his head,
and folded up the gray cape that covered
him. Transparent plastic tubes led from
needles in the elbow-pits of both bare arms
to glass cabinets on either side of his
chair. The large bottle in the righthand cabi-
net was nearly empty, that in the other cabi-
net nearly full. The cape fell again.
Blanchard stared at him.

Toring smiled wryly. “This ‘free’ hour I
devote to rush cases, such as your daughter’s,
and determine whether the patient should

be given preferential treatment.”

“Twenty-four hours a day, for ten years,”
murmured Blanchard.

A buzzer sounded on the desk. “Yes?”
asked Toring.

" Budapest calling,” intoned a woman’s
voice.

“All right. And, Registrar, can you give
J. T. Blanchard’s daughter Naida an ap-
pointment in four months? Indeed? Then
you’ve got to postpone a start for somebody.
No, keep that boy on the list — he’s a chronic
suicide. Mrs. K. ? No, she’s a widow with
two girls in school. Senator D. ? Simple
schizo? Good! Shove him down a few
months. He’ll be reelected anyway, and
that’s all his family is really worried about.”

He turned to the patron. “I’m going to
run you out now, Mr. Blanchard. Stop by
the desk down the hall and the registrar will
give you an appointment. Four months’
delay won’t make an awful lot of difference
in the long run, since the analysis may be
a matter of years.”

As he watched the industrialist push the
wheel chair out, Toring disconnected the
needles from his arms, knotted his fists
experimentally a few times, stood up, and
stretched vigorously. He still felt tired.

He turned back to the video screen, took
a deep breath, and pushed the “Come in”
button.

From beneath the bushy V of satanic eye-
brows, Rachs’ jet eyes seemed to shower
sparks at him. As usual, that immobile face
was incandescent, and Toring fancied he
could almost hear the creaking of a carbon-
arc in the brain of his superior. The Hun-
garian’s incredible energies frightened,
rather than soothed patrons, and for years
he had worked solely in the advancement
of extra-sensory mechanics.

“Toring.” he clipped, “I want you to kill
a man.”

The younger Freudian swallowed rapidly,
and he was conscious of a dark silence in
the room.

“I take it that the Council has finally ap-
proved your agathon program?” he asked
the eyes.

“Two hours ago.”

“Very well. Who is the man?"

“Dr. John Follansbee.”

The analyst’s knees went rotten. He
leaned heavily over the desk.

“You realize, of course, that you’re asking
me to kill my father?”

68 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

The subject was your father in pre-
Freudian life. Now, you have no family.”

“Where are you calling from?” asked
Toring through a dry throat.

"The ’stat room.”

Toring repressed a shudder. He had been
in the biostat rooms. He had even seen his
own ’stat, scratching away slowly at the un-
known days remaining to him. That scrap-
ing stylus had blended with a hundred thou-
sand others into a sinister fate-whisper. It
must be terrible to know when one was go-
ing to die.

Rachs’ eyes disappeared abruptly and the
scene shifted to a large transparent plastic
cabinet containing a complex potpourri of
small black spheres connected together in-
tricately with insulated wiring. On the front
of the cabinet was a kymograph. The stylus
was dead, unmoving.

Toring read the legend:

No. 19,644. Follansbee, John, D.Sc,, Director, Fol-
lansbee Research Institute, Washington, D. C.,
U.S.A. Jan. 10, 1902—2:10 a.m. E.S.T. Feb. 16,
1978.

The latter date had very recently been
added in ink. February 16 was — tomorrow.

“The Lodges have delayed initiating aga-
thon practice for years,” said Toring evenly.
"Why start now, and why, my — why Dr.
Follansbee?”

The black diamond eyes appeared again,
and seared into him.

“Good questions. We start now because
in the past ten years, out of the two thou-
sand two hundred and one deaths predicted
by the biostats, there were two thousand two
hundred and one deaths. And in over
ninety-odd thousand operating ’stats, no
deaths went unpredicted. We had to wait
until the absolute infallibility of the machine
was demonstrated.”

“I’ll warn my father. He can leave the
country.”

“You’re being surprisingly emotional,
Toring. Skip country ? It would be like leav-
ing Bagdad for an appointment in Samarra.
We tried that. One thousand and ninety-
eight subjects were forewarned. Some left
town. Some shut themselves up. Some did
nothing. They all died at the minute pre-
dicted. Accident, disease, old age, a few
murders, and one suicide.”

“Even so, I — I just can’t accept the biostat
as a reality. The Freudian concept of mental
health is based on free will, not on an in-
exorable steel-clad fate mapped out by a

soulless machine!”

“My boy, there’s really no free-will-
versus-predestination conflict. You’re for-
getting aH the groundwork of ultra-Freudian-
ism begun at Duke University before you
were born. Listen! Early experimenters at
Duke, before shuffling a deck of twenty-five
cards, would attempt to predict the post-
shuffling sequence. They called it PDT —
precognitive down-through.’ As you recall,
some of the predictions were extraordinarily
successful.”

ORING nodded.

“Now follow carefully. The normal
human mind, traveling in a unidimensional
time flow, knowing only ‘before’, ‘now’, and
‘after’, would have to wait until ‘after’ the
shuffling before it could know the sequence.
The metanormal mind, on the other hand,
is not bound in unidimensional time. It
travels freely backward and forward at an
arbitrary rate. For that mind, time is bi-
dimensional at the very least. With the
biostats, we've finally attained the same
result — a machine attuned to a human mind
and capable of projecting the existence or
nonexistence of that mind about three days
into the future.”

“Isn’t that predestination?” insisted Tor-
ing-

“Not at all. It’s simply the prepublication
of a brief chapter already written by free
will.”

“I’m not convinced. Possibly the thing
you want me to do. precludes an objective
approach. But you still haven’t answered
my second question. Why have you chosen
Dr. Follansbee, my father, for the first aga-
thon?”

The eyes sparkled. “A few months ago,
just before the cyclotron blinded him, Dr.
Follansbee was on the verge of communicat-
ing across time with other minds, including
his own. You’ve got to stimulate him into a
forceful demonstration, catch him in the act,
and find out how it’s done. The specialized
tele-encephalographic analyzers you’ll need
to focus on him have been shipped on the
Trans-At jet. and they’ll be in Washington
port any minute. You inherited the Follans-
bee mind, and despite the limitations of your
classical education, you would he best able
to grasp and apply the telekinetic principles
involved. But that’s just the beginning. Ex-
tra-temporal communication — the ability to
impinge a thought pattern on a mind over

FRUITS OF THE AGATHON 69

time — is merely a specialized form of psy-
chokinesis.”

"I’m afraid I don't understand.”

The eyes snapped irritably. “Of course
you do. It means you’ll have the power to
suppress — or stimulate, telekinetically — any
given neural pattern in the mind of your
patients. Telekinesis applied to another mind
is psychokinesis. You’ll be able to cure a
psychotic in an hour instead of the months
and months of daily sittings now required.
Boy, think ! This will revolutionize Freudian
technique. It will mean we can give a normal,
healthy mental life to the millions we have
to turn away every year.”

The face in the screen suddenly relaxed
and smiled — a benevolent Mephistopheles.
“How about it ?”

Toeing, his hands behind his gray robes,
was pacing the room slowly. He stopped and
looked with troubled eyes at the older man.

“You are absolutely positive the biostat
never makes a mistake? That my father
would die tomorrow, no matter what I do?”
“The facts speak for themselves. It’s a
sure thing.”

Turing’s eves were half shut in a profound
reverie. “If I undertake this thing, it will
be because I hope to develop something that
will destroy it for all time . . . Tell me, Rachs,
have you tried the biostats on twins?”

“Twins?” Racks looked surprised. “Well,
yes. At birth their minds give the same
encephalographic pattern. One biostat stays
tuned to both minds, even though they di-
verge greatlv as they mature.”

“So that if one twin died, the biostat
wouldn’t stop?”

“The stylus would jiggle a bit, but it would
keep going.”

“And you know that I have no twin?”
“Of course you don’t. Blaine and Pickerel
are both older than you. What are you lead-
ing up to?”

“This : If I died, and my ’stat continued
to run, you’d admit your biostats were falli-
ble, and stop the agathons?”

Rachs studied the analyst shrewdly. “I
would. But whatever you have in mind, it
won’t work. The ’stat has proved its pre-
cision. It’s here to stay.”

“You’ve told me what I want to know,”
Toring continued gravely, “and I accept the
responsibility for the Follansbee agathon.
At the same time I warn you that murder
in the name of humanity is a paradox that
I cannot appreciate, and I expect to dis-

credit your system completely.”

Rachs grinned balefully. “That’s the
spirit, you young devil’s advocate ! If you
die and your ’stat goes on running, I’ll have
the council withdraw the program!”

Their eyes looked in spirited challenge.

Rachs looked down, first. “Now to busi-
ness. You won’t really strike the death blow.
Your brother Pickerel is itching to do that,
but he hasn’t enough sense to do it cleanly.
You’ll have to help him. He tried to kill your
father in the cyclotron room, once before,
but only blinded him. Or didn’t you know?
This time it’s got to go smoothly. Here's
the plan.”

Incapable of further surprise, Toring
listened, nodding from time to time. . . .

R. JOHN FOLLANSBEE lay utter-
ly relaxed for a moment after the con-
certo died away. His couch was a mass of
inflated cushions floating in a small pool of
water, warm and scented, in the Sleepless
Wing of the Lodge.

The last of his lactic-acid-laden blood was
draining from his veins, and the bottle above
him, containing the glycogen-rich blood, was
almost empty. His pulse was accelerating.
He flexed his biceps and stretched, but gin-
gerly, to avoid pulling the needles from his
arteries.

The enchantment was fading. The fright-
ful thing that he had been trying to escape
for weeks began again to gnaw hungrily at
his brain. His peaceful smile vanished quick-
ly. Lie tugged at the guide rope lying across
his cushion-raft and pulled himself to the
pool edge. Here he yanked at the bell and
soon heard the scrape of sandals on the
marble flagging.

Lie cocked a blind eye in that direction.
“Toring?”

“Right, Dr. Follansbee.”

The preceptor helped the patron over the
pool edge. Dr. Follansbee immediately tried
to guide the conversation into painless ter-
ritory.

“You thought you had me on that leit-
motiv,” he growled. “I’ve been wondering
how long it would take your composers to
break down and try a C-E-G triad in the
lower bass. Repeated dissonance can re-
sult in conditioned consonance, you know.
Who wrote it — Maillon?”

Toring’s gray features creased in a faint
smile, “You never miss, do you? Yes, your
daughter-in-law wrote it last night.”

70 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

Dr. Follansbee pulled on his trousers and got nowhere. Perhaps we’re even losing

blouse. “I thought so. What did she name
it?”

“ ‘The Death of John Follansbee’,” replied
the preceptor evenly.

Follansbee hesitated a moment. “I can’t
hide a blessed thing from her,” he muttered.
"It’s rumored, you know, that you mind read-
ers have a gadget capable of predicting
death.” It was a question rather than a
statement.

“I needn’t comment on that, Dr. Follans-
bee,” replied the preceptor evasively. “Your
own remarkable premonitions are ample raw
material for a Freudian musician. And Mail-
lon is particularly acute at sensing your
moods. As a Freudian associate, it is her
duty to help you understand yourself.”

“Don’t preach to me of Freudian duties,”
rumbled Follansbee. “I laid the cornerstone
to this Lodge before either of you children
were born. My youngest son is a Freudian
analyst — somewhere.”

Toring paled, then laughed uneasily. “All
right, I won’t preach. And I suppose you’re
not interested in what Rachs had to say about
your prescience of disaster?”

“He has a good idea once in a while
Shoot !”

“As you know, it takes a Freudian to rec-
ognize a non-Freudian psychosis. Frequent-
ly a prescience of death is found on psycho-
analysis to be simply the subconscious wish
for the death of an enemy, inverted by a guilt
complex into a sense of impending disaster
for the wisher. At first, we thought this pos-
sible in your case.”

“I know lots of people I’d like to see
dead,” said Dr. Follansbee cheerfully, as they
reached the dining couch and picked up the
chilled beers.

Toring continued quietly. “Rachs believes
that you are now in subconscious communi-
cation with your own mind at the moment of
death — a unique interweaving of chronopathy
and telekinesis. He thinks that you might,
under proper stimulation, touch other minds
in the future in the same way that you have
touched your own.”

Follansbee was not listening. “Even if it’s
true I’m going to die, I don’t like to think
about it. Disturbs my work.”

“Are you still working on Maillon’s car-
cinoma?”

"Yes. Blaine, my eldest son, and I are
spending twenty-three hours a day on it.”
He shook his head sadly. "So far, we’ve

ground. About two weeks ago, just after the
operation, the growth went unexpectedly
metastatic, and we know of at least eight
new colonies. Further surgery is out of the
question. We’ll have to find a specific for
carcinoma, like barium-Q for radiation burns,
or Maillon will die. And soon.”

“Is your other son helping you?”

"Piggy? Oh. Piggy — or Pickerel, as his
dead mother named him — keeps busy.” Fol-
lansbee cleared his throat apologetically. “Of
course his talents lie in a different direction.
He handles some of the administrative de-
tails of the floor polish section, but he could
never work up much interest in the technical
phases of the work. Fine boy, even so,” he
added staunchly. “Very anxious about his
wife, though I’m afraid they haven’t got on
very well since Maillon became a Freudian
associate and started composing for the non-
sleepers. In some ways, there’s a big gap
in their outlook on things.”

Toring took a deep breath. “Maillon be-
lieves that your thoughts of personal disaster
are inextricably intertwined with her carci-
noma.”

Follansbee halted his glass in mid-air.
“Shall I go on ?” asked the preceptor.

F OLLANSBEE’S throat was suddenly
dry. He had told these people nothing.
Yet they knew — how much?

“Go on !” he rasped.

“Maillon says you think you are going to
be murdered.”

There was a crash of glass. Neither of the
men moved. Rivulets of bubbling beer
trickled away from the patron’s fallen goblet.

The excruciating probe began again. “She
says that you know who will kill you.”

The scientist was panting heavily.

“Which son, Dr. Follansbee?”

Toring’s cheeks were gray marble, but his
nostrils were painfully dilated over trembling
lips. At this moment he felt he had lost
forever his right to the society of decent
human beings, and he swore silently that if
he now failed to extract the secret of psycho-
kinesis from his father he would kill himself
painfully. If he were successful, he would
die too, of course, but there would be no
element of self-punishment involved, and that
death need not be painful.

“You must do nothing,” stammered the
patron. "The Freudians are not policemen.”
Toring helped Dr. Follansbee over the

FRUITS OF THE AGATHON 71

broken glass and walked to the entrance with
him.

“One last question, doctor,” he said as
they stood in the doorway. “Are you afraid
to die?” He awaited the answer with a
strained expectancy unusual in a Freudian.

Follansbee had recovered his poise. “How
can I lie afraid of something I know nothing
about ? That would simply be a superstitious
fear of the unknown, not of death.” He
tapped his cane. “Good night, Toring. I
have to be at the lab at two-ten.”
*****

“Your chess composition is like a chord
of music,” said Blaine Follansbee, eyeing
Maillon curiously from his blood-change arm-
chair.

The woman he addressed lay in a high
white hospital bed, her black hair tumbling
about her pillow in calculated confusion, one
olive-hued arm stretched languidly toward
the chess board control box, the other doubled
under her pillow. Her cheek bones and nose
were sharply defined even under the soft
radiance of her bed fluor.

Blaine grinned at her suddenly. “A pure
multiple echo, really. Same type of harmony
you find in a tone poem. I, the experienced
solver of chess problems, look through the
echoes and see the musician.” He removed
the needles from his arms and rang the
bell for an attendant. “And now I’ve got to
g°-”

The woman, who had been devouring his
praise hungrily, pouted. “You’re a few min-
utes late already. If you’ll stay a little while
longer I’ll show you how to force a mate with
two knights against the lone king.”

“You’re a liar. No, I’ll have to run. We’re
taking u.v. slides of some growth from your
larynx, and I want to be there to tell Father
what the negatives show. From now on,
every minute counts.”

“Have you really found something?”

“Wo don't know. We’ve been working
with a possible specific — a derivative of rose
oil that inhibits cytosis in vitro, but has no
effect in vivo. Wliat we really need is some
agent that could create the rose oil derivative
right in the blood stream, but of course
that’s preposterous.”

“You don’t sound too hopeful. If I’m go-
ing to die anyway, why leave early? Why
sacrifice your one hour of rest just to squint
futilely through a microscope?” She twisted
nervously at the coverlet.

The man’s voice was suddenly tired. “How

do I know whether you’re going to die?
Ask your Freudian friends. It’s rumored
they can predict death probabilities. All I
can do is keep working.”

The attendant entered and rolled the chair
out.

Blaine picked up his hat. Maillon made
a moue.

“Best o’ luck on the magic bullet. Dr. Ehr-
lich. I'm writing the Nobel Committee to-
night.”

The man and woman looked at each other
briefly, without expression.

“Tomorrow night, same time,” he mut-
tered, and left.

*****

Dr. Follansbee’s braille watch chimed the
hour, two o’clock in the morning, as he
stepped from the piazza of the Freudian
Lodge and began his short walk across the
campus of the Follansbee Institute, toward
the Pathology Building.

Which son was going to kill him?

Was it Blaine, the tall, yellow-haired one,
the diligent, industrious one, the one who
would logically succeed his father as direc-
tor of the Institute? Or was it Pickerel,
“Piggy,” the affable, entertaining one, the
dark, chubby one, the one who would lose
most from his father’s death, and whom so
many people strangely disliked ?

He stopped in the middle of the path, sur-
rounded by darkness and stars, and pulled
a small needle gun from his pocket.

There was a good way to stop either of
his sons from becoming a murderer. He
would finish now what the cyclotron had
failed to do when it had blinded him six
months back. He lifted the weapon to his
temple.

C YCLOTRON? Charged particles? Of
course! New eyesight. The problem
that had occupied his mind for months, wak-
ing and blood-changing. It was absurdly
simple, when one knew the answer. Why
had it taken him so long to think of this?
He mustn’t let it be lost now. He would
make notes tomorrow.

But tomorrow he might be dead, and
countless blind people would be cheated. As
he stood, sunk in thought, he remembered
Toring’s suggestion that he might be able to
pierce the future and touch other minds.

For a moment the man stood immobile,
his body stiffening, while his mind spiraled
through cold time and space, alert, searching.

72 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

He found her — Maillon. With sly, eager
malice he beat out the opening chords of the
death concerto she had w ritten for him. He
sensed her incredulity, and grinned. Then
his lips pressed together tightly and he ham-
mered away at the details for the artificial
eye.

The contact wandered, then faded, but he
knew she had the essential elements. She
would understand. She would understand
everything except why he had called to her
instead of Blaine or Piggy.

His somber intent likewise faded, and a
few minutes later he unlocked the door to
the Pathology Building and let himself in.
He had preceded Blaine, evidently.

Or had he? Was there a noise on the
stair?

With slow but sure step he walked over to
the stair and began the ascent toward the
laboratory, which opened on the mezzanine
balcony. Halfway up he felt a breath of icy
air. He stood very still. The now familiar
sense of immediate desl ruction, and a be-
lief that he had passed someone on the stair,
struck him simultaneously. And he knew
now who would kill him.

“Piggy?” he whispered.

There was an audible click as the entrance
door opened and closed. Silence was com-
plete in the building. The intruder had left.

Dr. Follansbee suddenly felt weak. For a
moment he grasped the stair railing, breath-
ing heavily. But he must delay his sinister
appointment no longer. He walked rapidly
up the remaining stairs, down the hall, and
opened the lab door. He flicked the fluors
on, and then, as he was reaching for the u.v.
switch for the microscope condenser, he
heard the lower entrance door open again.

That must be Blaine. Yes, there were his
steps on the stairs. He must warn Blaine to
stay away tonight. Tonight, he must work
alone.

As he turned toward the door, he pressed
the u.v. switch. A beam of barely visible
blue light shot across the microscope bench,
past the microscope condensing mirror, and
into a quartz jar of americium fulminate. But
Dr. Follansbee never knew this, because im-
mediately afterward he was lying on the
lobby floor, dead, with shards of glass drop-
ping musically around him.

The explosion echoes died away.

With a heavy hand Toring pushed the
tele-encephalograph tapes to one side and
looked at the fat man behind the gun.

“It’s all over. Why don’t you shoot?”

“One of your nurses is in the hall. I’d
prefer she didn’t see me leave.” Pickerel
Follansbee’s red eyes studied the preceptor
curiously. “Did you think I could let you
live after you gave me the fulminate?”

"I hadn’t considered the question.”

“What was your angle? Why were you
so eager to help me?”

The Freudian sighed wearily. “Just an
idea that didn’t quite click. It doesn’t matter,
now. How about you? Do you really believe
Blanchard will make the trustees appoint
you the new director of Follansbee Insti-
tute ?”

“Why do you think I married his daugh-
ter ?”

“Of course.” Toring fingered the tele-
encephalograph tapes thoughtfully. “Tell me,
Follansbee, have you seen Naida lately? Your
wife’s sister?”

The other laughed harshly. “That stupid
little mutt! I scared the devil out of her
two weeks ago. Haven’t seen her since. She
scares easy,” he added with a reminiscent
grin.

Together they listened to the sound of the
nurse’s heels dying away down the hall.

“Follansbee,” murmured the analyst, “I’ve
changed my mind about letting you kill me.
Though I’ve failed in a great thing I cannot
indulge, just yet, in the luxury of the grave.
I’ve got to make another try. I simply must."
He seemed to be talking to himself.

“Sorry, Shakespeare. Say your pr — ”

He broke off, eyes bulging. Toring’s ink-
well was boiling furiously.

Pickerel laughed nervously. "Your tricks
don’t scare me!”

“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just
trying to show you something interesting.
Do you see these tapes ? They recorded your
father’s thoughts during the last few hours
of his life. And they carry a remarkable
secret. Not quite so wonderful as T had
hoped, but adequate to persuade you to avoid
me for a few days, while I study that secret
further.”

P ICKEREL leaned forward suspiciously.
“Yeah?”

“Your father was a chronopath. He had
the ability to impress a thought pattern on
the mind of another, across time and space.
This magnificent gift is really just a special-
ized variety of telekinesis, the cruder forms of
which can be acquired by certain types of

FRUITS OF THE AGATHON 73

minds — my own, at any rate.” A thrill of mingled delight and despair

“Hurry it up, bright boy.”

“As for the ink-well, that was simply a
matter of separating, telekinetically, the fas-
ter water molecules from the slower and
concentrating them at the surface of the ink
until their vapor pressure per unit area
reached about seven hundred and sixty milin-
meters of mercury. It might astonish you to
learn that billions of molecules are controlled
so easily. As a matter of fact, a generation
ago, Dr. Rhine of Duke University, using
dice, proved that certainty of control in-
creased with the number of objects em-
ployed.”

Pickerel pointed his needier carefully at
Toring’s left breast and squeezed the trig-
ger — hard.

“An analogous application, though in re-
verse,” continued the analyst mildly, “is in
condensing the white-hot steam jet of a need-
ier. The heat from the americium capsule is
preferentially dissipated within the chamber
and handle of the — ”

In a spasm of pain the fat man flung the
gun away and thrust his fingers in his
mouth.

“I’ll get you yet!” he snarled.

The desk video buzzed. The Freudian
looked up placidly. “Will you excuse me?”
A strangled cry was still-born in the fat
man’s throat. He scooped up his needier
with his handkerchief and dashed from the
room.

Toring sat folding and unfolding his pale
hands.

The video jangled again. He pressed the
“In” button.

Rachs’ demoniacal eyebrows lifted ques-
tioningly over flashing black eyes.

“The explosion went off as scheduled,”
said Toring without expression.

Rachs waved that aside impatiently. “Did
you get anything from the tapes?”

“Not much. Just simple telekinesis. I tried
it on Pickerel a few minutes ago.”

"You worked on his cortex?”

“Not that. I could have penetrated his
mind easily enough, but it would have killed
him. I’m ready for psychokinesis.”

Rachs couldn’t conceal his disappointment.
“Perhaps your mind is still too stiff — too
clumsy. I thought that putting you through
the emotional wringer of killing your father
would give you the necessary mental elas-
ticity. .It may yet. Keep trying.”

“I shall,” replied Toring evenly.

surged through Maillon as she examined the
dark glasses and the patches of surgical
tape that hid the man’s face.

Blaine smiled grimly. “If you’re thinking
that blind men lead a life of leisure and
can visit pretty Ladies by the hour, you’re
wrong. Right after Father’s funeral we start-
ed repairing the lab, and I’ve set the staff
back to work on that rose oil derivative.”

“I’m glad, Blaine. You aren’t happy un-
less you’re working, and I want you to be
happy. What did the coroner say?”

“He thinks some americium fulminate got
in the way of the u.v. beam. Accidental death.
Poor Father! He liked being alive. He got
a great kick out of thinking that everything
he did was making life easier for somebody,
somewhere. Which leads to the next ques-
tion. What’s this insane story about Father’s
communicating with you telepathically ?” He
snorted. “Spirits 2 ”

“Say what you like. It was he, and you
know it. Only your father could have cari-
catured my concerto with such malicious
nonchalance, and you know he’d been trying
for months to restore his sight. But what
did he mean by ‘snooperscope’?”

“I’ve been working on the assumption that
he had in mind the old infra-red snooper-
scope developed during the last war. You
shine a source of infra-red light — just a plain
tungsten lamp with a thin ebony filter — on
the object, and pick up the reflected infra-
red rays in a tube something like the old
orthicon used in television of the late Forties.
This incoming infra-red ‘light’ is focused
through a glass lens and forms an image on
a convex screen of caesium-silver oxide. The
screen shoots off electrons where the infra-
red rays strike it, and these electrons are
focused by an electrostatic electron lens on a
fluorescent screen, which gives the final vis-
ible image.”

“But you’re blind. How’re you going to
see that screen?”

“That’s the pretty part of it. My visual
pigments — rhodopsin and iodopsin — were
burnt out by the flash of the explosion. The
oculist-surgeon says they’re in the light-
bleached phase now and will never again
activate the rods and cones that in turn ener-
gize the retinal nerve endings. But the nerve
endings themselves are intact.”

M AILLON gasped in sudden com pre-
hension.

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

74

“Do you mean you’re going to substitute
your retina for the viewing screen of the
snooperscope ?”

"In a way, yes. That isn’t difficult. But
adapting the other elements of the snooper-
scope poses some problems. You have to
remember that an electron will pass through
only a few inches of air, at most. A fraction
of an inch of the saline fluid of the eye would
stop it cold. So I’ll have to drain the eye
fluids and make vacuum chambers of my
eyes. For the casings of my new eyeballs,
I’ll precipitate a thin but strong layer of
silica gel, impregnated with platinum dust
to conduct electrons to the retinal nerve end-
ings just beyond. When the shell hardens,
we drain the fluids, insert the electrostatic
lens, and devacuate the shell.”

“You’ll do what!”

“The glassy lens will have to come out,
too, of course. Its focal length is far too
long to focus light in the short space I’ll
have available. But a low-powered micro-
scope objective ought to do nicely. I can
rack it forward for high magnification, and
in conjunction with the electron microscope,
it ought to be pretty potent. I even thought
about plugging my retina up directly to the
electron mike, but I couldn’t figure any way
to beat that two hundred kv. potential that
would be pouring in. I’m going to have trou-
ble enough with the five lev. I’ll use with the
snooperscope eye.”

Maillon sat in her bed, hunched in thought.
"I suppose an infra-red world is better than
none.”

“Ho ! Don’t underestimate me ! I’m really
reverting to something like the old orthicon.
I won’t limit myself to the hundred thousand
Angstrom range of infra-red. I’ll modify the
caesium screen between the glass objective
and the electron lenses, and I’ll have a spec-
trum extending from the deep infra-red
into the visible.”

"When is your operation?”

"At seven p.m.

His lapel video buzzed ; he held it to his
ear for a moment. “All right,” he acknowl-
edged.

“It’s Father’s secretary, or rather Piggy’s
now, I guess. The new director wants me
to report at once.” He sensed Maillon’s
apprehensive frown. "Don’t worry. It can’t
take long. It must be after six in the evening.
Piggy won’t stay late enough to miss supper.
I’ll have the new eyes ready to blink by nine
o’clock. Call your father and see if he can

break away from his mergers and swindles
long enough to help us. He’s a first-class
chemist, and we’re going to need him. I’ll
meet you both over at the old pathology lab.
And don’t worry about me. I’ve been finding
my way around here in the dark of night for
years ...”

* * * * *

“Ah, come in, Blaine,” called out his
brother heartily. "I’m really happy to see
you.”

Blaine hesitated a fraction of a second.
Piggy’s manner reminded him of a huge hog
about to pounce on a juicy red apple. He
could not tell whether Piggy was extending
his hand or not, but he stepped forward to
take the chair which in days past had stood
by their father’s old desk. The next min-
ute he was picking himself up from the floor.
As he untangled his legs he reached back
and fingered a length of sash-cord tied be-
tween Piggy’s desk and a nearby chair.

"What the devil !” he spluttered.

His brother beamed, without offering to
assist.

"Just checking on your eyesight, Blaine,”
he said pontifically. “I wanted to see for my-
self. As the director of this great organiza-
tion I have to make sure that we are not
paying out the money budgeted to us by our
clients to persons physically unqualified to
advance the work of the Institute.”

The blond man got to his feet silently.

“So just sit down, Blaine,” continued Pig-
gy generously, “and we’ll go over this quietly,
like gentlemen. It’s true, then — you’re
blind V’

“A shrewd observation,” said Blaine with
deceptive gentleness.

“Well, then, don’t you see? You are no
longer of any use to the Institute. I’ll have
to let you go.”

Blaine smiled. “You’ve waited a long time
for this, haven’t you? Very well. Do I have
a few days to put my work in order?”

“You’ll have the usual thirty days, of
course,” offered Piggy. “Provided you’re
willing to observe our new policy.”

"What’s that?”

“I’ve rearranged the backlog of work
somewhat. We’re going to give our biggest
clients priority from now on. The little fel-
lows can go elsewhere if they don’t like it.”

Blaine’s smile changed subtly.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” con-
tinued Piggy. “It wasn’t Father’s way. Well,
his ideas were naive, childish. From now

FRUITS OF THE AGATHON 75

on, we’ll help big industry exclusively. The ditioned reflexes formed during infancy.

little firms just can’t pay the percentages the
big ones can. I know where the money is,
and I’m going to get it.”

“None of the preferred clients are going
to give the new director a bonus, are they?”
asked Blaine innocently.

IGGY was not embarrassed.

“I'm out for everything I can get.
Father could have been one of the wealthiest
men in the country if he had played this game
sensibly. Instead, he turned his business over
to a hunch of visionary trustees.”

“He believed," clipped Blaine, “that was
the only way he could preserve his Insti-
tute as a benelit to all mankind, not just to a
chosen few massive corporations. Haven’t
you any respect for his last wishes?”

“None whatever. He was a prize fool . . .
sit back down, or I’ll blast you where you
stand . . . That’s better. Yes, dear brother,
things are going to step lively around here
from now on. The first thing you’re going
to do is drop your silly cancer research.
There’s no money in that. If you want to
keep on drawing your salary during vour
last month with the Institute, you can start
your staff on a problem International Insec-
ticide sent us. You’ll find it in your lab,
right now. If I were you. I’d go quietly.
And remember, there’s a nice bonus in it —
for me . . .”

Blanchard flung the lab door open, blink-
ing. The foyer and mezzanine corridor of
the pathology building were dark, and he
could see nothing.

“Hello there, J. T.l”

“Blaine, my boy! You can see!”

“Better than you! I can see in the dark!”
“Let him in, Father,” Maillon said. “I
want him to look at me.”

Blaine laughed. “The female use for male
eyes. All right, I’m looking at you, and you’re
an upside-down sepia portrait!”

“What!”

“Everything I see is a sort of neutral
brown. No color, but I expected that be-
cause. after all, a bare nerve ending can’t
sense color. And you’re upside down — no
mistake.”

“Blaine, dear, are you sure that local has
completely worn off?"

Maillon’s father laughed. “He’s quite
right. The laws of optics give you and me
inverted retinal images, which we pretend to
turn right side up again by innumerable con-

Blaine has that same mass of reflexes, and
now they've betrayed him by turning upside
down what doesn’t need to be turned upside
down. You can cure that, Blaine, by wear-
ing inverting spectacles, but it’s clumsy. It
won’t take long to retrain your motor sys-
tem.”

“I hope not. Well, let’s test the new blink-
ers. We'll start with a membrane of metas-
tatic cells from your larynx, Maillon. Say”
— he sniffed the air curiously — “what's that
funny odor?"

“In a vague way," offered the woman, “it
reminds me of a perfume. Haven’t you been
working here with rose oil derivatives?”

“Yes, but the Ixjttles are always carefully
stoppered, and there’s never been any odor
before. Must be something in one of the
other labs. So, J. T., if you'll kindly prepare
. . . No, wait a minute."

He walked over to the reagent shelf,
reached awkwardly for a quart jar, uncorked
it, and sniffed cautiously at the orifice. His
nostrils wrinkled in disgust.

“The odor can’t be from Piggy’s Interna-
tional Insecticide sample^-it's malodorous.”

“Concentrated perfume is always malodor-
ous,” said Maillon.

“Hmm." After a couple of misses, Blaine
managed to thrust a stirring rod into the
fluid. He drew it out, examined the clear
syrup glistening at the tip, and then handed
the rod to Blanchard. “J. T., would you
mind fixing me a membrane of that for the
electron mike? I'd like to see how much I
can step up its magnification in conjunction
wfith my snooper eye, but I'm too awkward
as yet to prepare a membrane myself. And
anyway, mv eyes need a rest. The retinas are
overheating and it’s a bit painful.”

Half an hour later Blaine’s brow corru-
gated slowly into a puzzled frown as he ad-
justed the potential of his portable power
pack.

“Definition quite satisfactory, but I don’t
recognize what I see. Too small for algae
and too big for protozoa. Seems to be some
quadricelled animal with very thick, resistant
membranes. May account for its hardihood
in that turpentine base." He adjusted the
focus slowly, turn after turn. “Hah! Our
microbe is breaking down the turpentine
into smaller things. Magnification is now
tremendous — of the order of X-ray crystal-
lography. Shadows of individual molecules
plainly visible. Here’s one that looks like a

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

76

sawtooth. Get out your pencil, J. T. Seven
carbons on the chain, with a methyl on the
second one and probably ethylol on the sixth.
The close binding between the second and
third carbons seems to indicate a double
bond. Got that?”

“Sounds like geraniol,” stated Blanchard,
the cold blue light from the fluors glinting
from his balding head. “Anything else?”
Blaine laboriously described two others.
“Citronellol and stearoptene, ” declared
Blanchard. “Let me smell that bottle.”

H E WRINKLED his nose wryly, then
with a pipette transferred a drop to a
liter beaker of water. This he stirred vigor-
ously, while a beatific smile stole over his
face.

“Take a whiff,” he invited his daughter.
“Well, find me dead in Saks Fifth Avenue !
From bugs, rose oil!”

“Exactly!” agreed Blanchard. “Blaine,
you’ve just made a billionaire out of a poor
little millionaire corporation. What they used
to sell for thirty-five a quart is now worth
thirty-five an ounce, wholesale. Why every
woman in the country can buy a drop of this
culture at the dime store within a few
months and grow her own rose perfume.”
“You’re wrong there, Father,” laughed
Maillon. “If it’s going to be that common,
no self-respecting female will ever use it
again. What do you think, Blaine?”

“It’s just barely possible,” said Blaine
slowly, “that if we injected some of this cul-
ture into the blood stream, our new microbe
would contribute enough enzyme to these
hay-wire cancer cells to put them under hor-
mone control once more. Then, of course,
they’d gradually die. I’d like to see what a
few of these animals will do to a cancer
colony. Now, J. T., if you will kindly pre-
pare a specimen from Maillon’s larynx.”

* * * * *

Blanchard strode nervously up and down
behind his desk.

“Further discussion of this will get us
nowhere,” he said to his son-in-law. “You’re
out as director and Blaine is in. The trus-
tees met again just fifteen minutes ago and
it’s all over now. I might add that you would
never have been elected director in the first
place, despite Maillon’s insistence, if I had
known that you planned on adopting such a
mercenary policy. The gap between you and
the man who cured my daughter is simply
abysmal. I knew it all along, but since his

miraculous eye and cancer discoveries have
been announced, even the public videoscopes
have been howling about it.”

Pickerel Follansbee smiled mirthlessly and
lounged deeper into the plushy armchair.

“Speaking of videos, just two days ago
Maillon asked you to have me elected direc-
tor, instead of Blaine. Did you wonder
why ?”

Blanchard stared at his son-in-law. “You
brought the note from her yourself, didn’t
you? I know you read it.” He scooped open
a desk drawer, pulled out a folded piece of
paper, and mumbled : “ ‘Dad — you’d do me
a favor if you asked the other trustees to
appoint Piggy to the directorate until I’m
either dead or cured.’ She was dying, and
I’d have done anything for her — even make
you director — though I must admit I don’t
know why she asked that.

“But now Blaine has put her on the road
to recovery. She’s up, walking around, takes
Naida along in the wheel chair. So I can’t
see any reason for keeping an incompetent
wretch like you in that high office of trust
any longer. You can go back to your shoe
polishes.”

“Floor polishes,” corrected Pickerel,
touching his fingertips together benignly.
“Do you know why she gave you that note?
No, of course you don’t. I made her write
it.” He leaned forward, eyes snapping dark-
ly, but still smiling. “I told her that I’d ex-
pose her love for my brother, and his for
her. I told her I’d smear it on every video-
scope in the country, if I weren’t made di-
rector. She wrote that note to save a lot of
people, including you and Blaine, from — -
shall we say — embarrassment?” He plopped
back with confident assurance. “So you see,
for the honor of the august houses of Blan-
chard and Follansbee, you may find it con-
venient to recall your stooges and take an-
other vote." He yawned luxuriously. “I’ve
loads of time. The evening scandals won’t
show for two hours.”

“Maillon? And Blaine?” mused Blan-
chard. “Of course. I’ve been blind. Writ-
ten all over them.” He sighed and dropped
into his swivel chair. “Piggy, I wish you
were dead.”

Pickerel nodded sympathetically.

“But that doesn’t alter my decision.
Blaine’s still director, not you. Furthermore,
if you ever make my daughter unhappy
again, I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth
and strangle you. Get out.”

FRUITS OF THE AGATHON

Piggy glared at the industrialist in brief,
bitter hate. Then he got up and strode an-
grily through the door . . .

By the light of his desk-fluor Blaine Fol-
lansbee watched the laboratory door slowly
open. He put his right hand under his desk,
touching the fluor switch, and turned his
eyes away from the door. Since his new re-
tinas, unlike the old, were uniformly sensi-
tive over the whole hemisphere, he could see
as well out of the “corner” of his eye as he
could along its optical axis — or better. And
he wanted to give the stealthy intruder a
feeling of confidence and domination.

He watched, fearful but elated, as Picker-
el’s contorted, upside-down face peeked in,
first at him and then carefully about the lab.

The next question : Would Piggy shoot
from the balcony, or come inside?

The fat man stepped silently within the
doorj continuing to study Blaine closely, and
appeared to listen. The campus was extra-
ordinarily quiet. Somewhere within the
building a cricket was creaking. Blaine
wished fervently that Piggy would hurry.
He had been using his eyes for half an hour
already, and they were overheating.

IGGY’S fat hand dived into his coat
pocket and surfaced with a needier.
He drew careful aim at his brother’s avert-
ed head.

Blaine turned slowly and listened to his
own voice. “Before you kill me, please an-
swer one question.”

The intruder hesitated.

“It’s about Maillon’s cancer,” continued
the scientist smoothly. “That metastatic
strain was an extremly virulent one devel-
oped in this very building. Two weeks ago,
by a strange coincidence, a jar containing
a sizable bit of that culture vanished. I’m
not asking you whether you grafted some
of it into your wife’s operational wound.
I’m asking — why?"

“You’re just guessing,” said Piggy be-
tween his teeth. “You can't prove a thing!”

“I realize that,” admitted Blaine. “But
it was a reasonable assumption, wasn’t it?
A request forced from his dying daughter to
make you director would have a lot of weight
with Blanchard.” His fingers began to
squeeze on the fluor switch. His eyesockets
were frantic with pain. “But then we come
to another difficulty. How did you know the
office of the director would fall vacant so
soon? How could you be positive Father

was going to die, unless you had already
planned to mur — ”

He ducked and snapped the switch. From
behind welled out the odor of hot metal,
and he knew the needier bolt had hit the
filing cabinet. The smoking steel plates filled
the room with the glow of infra-red. He
turned off his power pack and rested his
burning eyes a few seconds.

Finally, he peeked cautiously over the desk.
Piggy was backed up against the reagent
shelf and was looking wildly in all directions.
To the human eye it was pitch dark. Blaine
thought a moment then smiled grimly and
hurled his desk dictionary at the lab door.
Piggy fired futilely at it as the portal
slammed shut.

The fat man’s cheeks were strangely
transparent, and his facial hair roots plainly
visible, making him look as though he need-
ed a shave. There was something odd about
the eyes, too. The whites were almost dark.
Either they were nearly transparent to infra-
red, showing through to the black retinas
beyond, or else they reflected little of these
long invisible waves. But no time for con-
jectures !

The scientist quietly picked up a long
mailing tube, held the end a few feet to his
brother’s right side, and whispered.

“Piggy!”

Another blast.

Then on the left side.

“Piggy!”

A fourth crash announced the fall of the
electron microscope. Piggy blasted at that,
too. Five.

Softly, Blaine put the tube aside and stood
up.

"One more, eh, Piggy?” he laughed.
“You’ve got to be sure, this time. Do you
know why you’ve got to be sure? Because
there’s a trick catch on the door. We’re
locked in, and I’ve got the key.” He was
ordinarily a poor liar, but he knew it would
sound logical to his brother.

Piggy peered toward the desk and took a
tentative step, needier pointing generally at
Blaine, who immediately tiptoed around to
the other side.

“Piggy, few people learn as much in the
last minute of their lives as you’re about to
learn. You ought to feel grateful. And
where did you get that horrible blouse?
Won’t your collar stay down without but-
toning it?”

His brother lurched back fearfully. “It’s

78 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

dark! You can’t see me!”

“It’s dark? Well, so it is. I keep forget-
ting. Why Piggy! You’re perspiring ! Bet-
ter wipe off a little of the sweat, before you
drown. Look in your lapel pocket — you’ll
find a white handkerchief with a dark bor-
der. Use that. And look at the kid gloves!
So you didn’t want to leave fingerprints!”

Pie laughed heartily, then jumped as a
white-hot beam flashed by his side.

"All right.” His voice was suddenly cold,
hard. "If you want to sit down now and
dictate a confession for the D. A., I’ll un-
lock the door and give you five minutes be-
fore I call the police.”

"And if I don’t?” whispered Pickerel
hoarsely.

“I’ll kill you.” Blaine’s big hands doubled
unconsciously, and it occurred to him that he
was no longer bluffing.

He watched deep lines twisting up and
down his brother’s face. Piggy was weigh-
ing chances, wondering how far he could
get. Suddenly the fat man flung his weapon
at his brother, turned, and laughed mightily
at the lab door. It vanished in a shower of
glass and plastic. The thunderstruck scien-
tist heard a shriek of horror and a dull,
heavy crash.

And then nothing.

Through the shattered panel he saw the
wooden braces— now broken — that had
served as a temporary balcony rail for the
past two days, and he knew that Pickerel
Follansbee now lay on the same cold bier so
lately occupied by their father.

Somewhere within the building a cricket
chirped away in cheerful insect solitude. . . .

T ORING knew before he punched the
“In” button that it would be Rachs. The
black eyes came into focus and gleamed at
him with malevolent interest. Dissecting
scalpels preparing to lay bare a corpse.

"I called as soon as I learned about Pick-
erel and Blaine,” declared the older man.
“How do you feel ?”

“How am I supposed to feel?”
“Exhausted, confused. The conviction
that you are indirectly responsible for two
death's in your immediate family should
have left your mind as limp as a rag.”
“You aren’t far wrong. Rachs” — Toring
leaned over the desk with almost impersonal
curiosity — "has my biostat stopped?”

The jet eyes blinked, then narrowed sharp-
ly. For a long moment each man searched

the soul of the other. Then Rachs rubbed
his chin thoughtfully and looked down.

"Your statement conceals tremendous im-
plications, some of them rather paradoxical.
Presumably you contemplate suicide to atone
for the deaths of your father and brother.
In your own foolish way, you regard your-
self as indirectly accountable. Then it occurs
to you that if you are going to die, your
biostat must have predicted your death.”
“For once, your famous insight has
failed — ”

“Don’t interrupt.” The older man
frowned, warming to his theme. “You’ve
probably been thinking as follows : ‘Free
will gives me the choice of living or dying.
If I choose to live, my biostat still runs.
It I choose to die, the ’stat stopped three
days ago. Which to do, live or die? By se-
lecting my future I select my past. By the
exercise of free will I establish determinism,
and so deny free will.’ Right?”

"I’ve considered all that, and more too,”
replied Toring quietly. "For example, sup-
pose that my father’s biostat predicted not
just his death, but — his agathon. That would
make me a co-murderer in the purest sense
of the word, wouldn’t it ? But all this specu-
lation leads nowhere. Just answer my ques-
tion.”

“But it does lead somewhere! With all
that soul-searching and brain-scratching,
your mind now ought to be sufficiently elas-
tic and sensitive to attempt a general re-
organization of a deranged cerebral cortex —
psychokinesis — the goal you’ve been working
toward. That is, telekinesis applied to indi-
vidual neurons, and so on up to neural pat-
terns and lobal nets. What do you think?”
“An hour after Piggy died, I came to the
same conclusion, and I’m finally going to
try psychokinesis. The subject is on her
way over now. And in this connection I’d
like to know about my bio — ”

“You can do it. Be sure to set up the
tele-encephalograph on your mind. After-
ward, we’ll want to know precisely what
happened.”

"My biostat?” reminded Toring patiently.
“Oh, that.” Rachs looked faintly sheep-
ish. "I must confess I’ve been worried about
it myself. The stylus jiggled rather er-
ratically a couple of days back, which would
correspond to a little after midnight tonight,
your time. But it’s still running.”

“In that case” — the preceptor’s voice car-
ried an icy edge of triumph — "your miser-

FRUITS OF THE AGATHON 7#

able agathon program is finished. ...”

Blanchard wheeled the girl into the study.
The dark moon face hidden behind the white
hands was perhaps a little thinner, but Tor-
ing noticed no other change.

“I’m not asking questions,” said the mag-
nate in a low voice. “I’m simply very grate-
ful, whatever your reasons for taking her out
of turn.”

The Freudian glanced absently at Blan-
chard. Considering the strange and terrible
thing that would happen soon to Naida he
should feel pity for the man. He felt noth-
ing.

“Has the D. A. released Blaine Follans-
bee yet?” he asked.

“He’s holding him for further evidence.
There weren’t any fingerprints on the gun,
and he wants to make sure Blaine didn’t use
it against Piggy instead of vice versa. If we
could prove that Piggy was a dangerous
character, then Blaine would have a good
case of self-defense. Blaine thinks Piggy
killed his father, and tried to kill Maillon.
But we can’t dig up a shred of evidence.”

“I see. But don’t be discouraged. I think
Naida will soon be able to tell us something
very interesting about Piggy . . . This is
going to require several hours. I don’t ex-
pect to finish before midnight. Perhaps you’d
better wait in the other room. You can look
through the little window in the wall from
time to time to see how we’re doing.”

Blanchard wiped his face with his hand-
kerchief, nodded nervously, and left the room.

The Freudian wheeled up the tele-en-
cephalograph, tested the tape mechanism,
and tuned it to his cortex. Then he sat
down in a chair alxmt ten feet in front of
Naida and forced himself to relax. For the
next quarter-hour his mind must be a pre-
cision instrument, perfect, invariant.

A tiny slip of telekinetic force, an incom-
plete understanding of a group of associa-
tion centers, and the child-woman would
never leave her coma. His battle against
Rachs and the agathons would be lost. Blaine
would go to trial for manslaughter.

But he knew he would not fail.

H rS approach was like the old mystery
story in which the thief filed his fin-
gernails to the quick in order to determine
a safe combination. His own mind, abraded
to the quick by doubt and worry, had finally
found the combination to another human
intellect.

The girl breathed slowly, rhythmically,
like a hibernating animal.

He held his breath for a moment, as his
mind began to probe gently at her pliant
mental shell, easing through into the superior
frontal gyrus. “Inside” there was some dis-
organized and ineffective attempt to bar him.
He was reminded of a little animal burrow-
ing ever deeper into a bank of forest leaves.
But he moved slowly onward, with infinite
patience, taking extreme pains not to frighten
his sensitive quarry into forever-protective
madness. At snail’s pace he groped up and
down the cortical corridors, cumulating, in-
tegrating, and understanding.

As he analyzed the chaotic wounds that
Piggy had left, wonder grew within him that
his splendid father could have sired such a
creature. Yet. in view of what he himself
intended to do to this mind a little later,
he doubted there was really so much dif-
ference in himself and his dead brother.

With firm, unhurried care he methodically
reactivated the shock centers, with their ac-
companying horror memories, but simul-
taneously placed the thalamus under partial
paralysis, so that no stimuli from images of
Piggy would be transmitted to the adrenals.
According to the James-Lange theory of
emotions, if Naida’s ductless glands were
inactive, her brain would view such mem-
ories objectively and feel no fear.

She stirred uncomfortably, as in a troubled
dream, but finally she lay limply against the
back of the wheel chair, eyes shut, hands
in her lap, breathing slowly.

With grim satisfaction the Freudian arose,
switched off the tele-encephalograph, and re-
turned to his desk. The tapes in the ma-
chine held the secret of psychokinesis — the
one good fruit of the Follansbee agathon.
How Rachs would rave! He could almost
see those two eyes flaming now.

And now for his own coup.

He would use a specialized form of psy-
chokinesis that he believed would not be
rediscovered for generations. Rachs really
had no conception of the horizon of the Fol-
lansbee mind.

The agathon system was breathing its last.

He punched his call box. “Registrar? Tor-
ing. Please cancel all further sittings that
you have listed for me.”

“You mean, all for today?”

“All for today. And tomorrow. And next
week. And forever.”

He disconnected the box and looked at his

80 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

watch. Eight p.m. Three hours to blood-
change. But he’d change now. He would
need every ounce of energy he could com-
mand.

He opened the cabinets on either side of
his chair, thrust the sterile needles deftly into
his arms, and started the little motor that
activated the vacuum and pressure apparatus.
From his desk drawer lie took an airblast
syringe and measured a shot of stimulant,
something he hadn’t touched since the last
day of his University exams.

A superb glow infused him as he turned
again to Naida. With easy confidence he
refocused his mind on hers,

Blanchard, standing second in Fine be-
fore the little window, felt the discom-
fort and apprehension of a neophyte attend-
ing a potent pagan rite. He glared at his
wrist-watch impatiently — it was nearly mid-
night — and tapped the nurse ahead of him
on the shoulder.

“What’re they doing now?” he whispered.

“No change,” she whispered back. “Oh,
you’re the father, aren’t you? You may have
my place now if you want it.”

His head bobbed gratefully, and the wom-
an pushed her way to the rear, where she
was taken in tow by a bevy of other curious
nurses.

Blanchard snubbed his blunt nose against
the plastic pane.

His daughter was standing before her
wheel chair, her right foot half a step in
front, her arms partly outstretched, palms
forward, reaching for something invisible.

The hair on his arms and neck stiffened
for a moment as he studied her radiant face.
The eyes were wide open, but Blanchard
could have sworn they saw nothing. The
full lower lip, red without rouge, was parted
from the upper in an unspoken question.
As he watched, the lips moved slowly.

The man she faced was carved from gray
obsidian, and from beneath his weary stone
eyelids two chatoyant jewels transfixed her.
Rivulets of sweat had gradually furrowed
that adamantine cheek during the hours that
Blanchard had watched, and the gray robes
draping the statue glistened with perspira-
tion, which, coupled with the systolic surging
of the chest, gave a curious illusion of a real
human being.

The industrialist shook his head dizzily.
The line between the real and the unreal
was becoming too thin for comfort. Then,
to his indescribable refief, the statute stood

up, snapping the blood-change tubes like
threads. Naida took another step forward,
Bps again parted, eyes still dissolved in wide
wonder.

B LANCHARD turned and waved a
hand in silent frenzy, demanding quiet.
The hall became still.

“Is it a dream?” Naida asked the gray
man.

Could that be Naida’s voice? thought
Blanchard. It sounded like — Toring’s.

He strained his ears to the panel. The
silence was growing longer. Finally he heard
the tired voice of the analyst.

“You know it is not.”

Naida put her hand to her brow and
straightened slowly.

“Yes, I know.”

The Freudian nodded in grim approval.
“The first thing you must do is talk to
Blan — . . . your father. Tell him about see-
ing Piggy plant that metastatic carcinoma
specimen in Maillon’s incision, and what he
threatened to do to you when he caught you
watching him.”

“I shall.”

Toring smiled. Napoleon after Austerlitz,
or MacArthur aboard the Missouri.

“Let’s call him in now. You know where
to meet me afterward. For the present, be
careful; later, merciful. . . .”

Chin cupped in palms, Toring leaned over
the balustrade of the high bridge. Beneath
him the moonlit rapids of the Potomac
frothed their way into the broader channel
downstream, toward a distant freedom in
the sea. A cold wind whipped about his
sweat-soaked robes, and he trembled un-
easily.

From somewhere overhead a light flashed
at him, and then a jet sedan struck the road-
way of the bridge and careened into the
opposite balustrade. Naida leaped out and ran
toward him on her toes, like a little girl.
She pulled up before him, lips characteris-
tically half-parted, dark eyes clothed in moon-
shadow but clutching at his. Her chest was
rising and falling rapidly in her white blouse
and tweed jacket.

“I hurried as much as I could,” she pant-
ed. "They released Blaine.”

“Good. There’s nothing to detain either
of us. You’d better return.”

Gently, the girl put her hand on his sleeve
and looked up at the Freudian.

"Are you really going to — ”

FRUITS OF THE AGATHON 81

“You should know.”

She looked down the river, apparently lost
in thought. Her fingers tightened on his
sleeve.

“Yes, I should know,” she mused. “After
all—”

“Yes, after all. With immaterial differ-
ences, your mind is — my own. I reproduced
on your cerebral cortex my every neuron,
every synapse, every neural path. For the
present, the mental entity that inhabits the
skull of Naida Blanchard is actually myself,
but it is superimposed upon the original
child-mind.

“So there are now two minds attuned to
my biostat. One mind dies, but the other
lives and continues to activate the ’stat.” He
laughed sardonically. “Poor Rachs!”

She looked up earnestly. Her hand slid
slowly up his sleeve, over his shoulder, and
to his cheek. “But I differ from you more
than you think. Even during the past hour
I have changed. I know now that I am —
Naida — and that you — are you.”

T HE analyst’s eyes narrowed in sudden
concern.

“Since I am not narcissistic,” he mut-
tered, “I should have realized the change in
you by your attempted caress. Already
your sex has begun to assimilate and re-
work my — your — mind along feminine lines.
Perhaps f shouldn’t have waited to learn
about Blaine. I can only hope you haven’t
changed so much that you’ve lost contact
with the biostat.”

“I think it’s too late! Don't jump!”

His eyes flicked across her face in brief,
startled appraisal. “Tire identity with my

own mind has become uncomfortably tenu-
ous. And yet, my ^iostat still runs. Which
means — ”

“That you won’t jump!” whispered the
woman tensely, pressing her palm to his
cheek.

“ — that I will jump, and that you face a
full, useful life as yourself, probably in the
Lodges. And remember, even if your body
ages, your mind netxl never die. But we
waste time. Return to your jet and don’t
look back.”

In one fleeting moment he looked through
her, through the bridge that separated him
from death, through the river, the earth,
and the stars beyond. Then he took her
hand quickly, kissed the warm palm, and
dropped it.

“That’s for Naida. — the first immortal.”

(Confidential to all Preceptors )

Psychokinesis is but a few days old and as yet
not susceptible to a comprehensive evaluation.
However, preliminary case reports indicate that
Taring’s new technique, as revealed by the T-E
tapes, has advanced psychiatry by many centuries.

It is tragic irony that this gigantic Freudian
could have healed, at the time of his passing, any
suicidal psychosis on earth save one — his own.

Also ironical is the failure of his biostat to pre-
dict his <mm death. The machine, after an in-
comprehensible quaver of the kymograph, con-
tinued to run even after the fact of his suicide had
been fed to its integrator webs.

This one divergence in the ninety thousand con-
firmed biostat histories proves that ultra-temporal
mechanics cannot escape Heisenberg’s uncertainty
principle. Since we can never be absolutely sure
that a given agathon is not actually a murder, the
agathon program will be discontinued immediately
and the biostats destroyed.

Man, it seems, is not yet God.

For the Council.

Rachs.

COMING NEXT ISSUE

MONSTERS FROM THE WEST

An Orig Prem Novelet by BENJ. MILLER

A veteran scientific scholar and author takes us on a tour of the least

explored region on earth — the human brain — in the first of a new series

of features designed to show the qualities we must have to conquer space!

OT only is the world bouncing along
on a pogo stick — it is also scared!
.X- ^ As a whole it doesn’t know how
far the stick will go on each jump, or in what
direction. It doesn’t know how it got on the
thing. It doesn’t know how to get off 1 And

this unpredictable pogo stick is a thing called
“nuclear fission.”

Dreamed into existence in science-fiction,
jelled into actuality in science laboratories,
atomic energy represents too vast an ad-
vance for most of the world’s people to com-

WORLD ON A

prehend. What a man doesn’t understand,
he fears.

The vast majority of the earth’s popula-
tion today is in the same position as an old
colored man found himself more than a
hundred years ago. He had crossed a swamp
and had come out on a railroad track, the
first he had ever seen.

It was like a road, and yet it wasn’t. The
steel rails stretched in both directions, but
the floor of the road was awfully bumpy.
There was a lot of space between the boards !
It was dusk and suddenly a train bore down
on him.

It roared like thunder. It cast flashes of
lightning out its sides. A great eye threw
its light right on him. Naturally he was
scared and ran, away from the train, down
the track, shrieking, “Lord, save me. The
devil is after me !”

Just before the train overtook the old man
he changed his direction and was a good
three yards off the track as it swept past
with a roar and disappeared in the distance.
When his trembling stopped the old man
got to his feet and looked after it. “I
fooled him, that time,” he said. "Jest
imagine. He can only see straight ahead !”

But the train was not a mystery to the in-
ventors who dreamed it into being, or to
the engineers who perfected it and built it.
They knew it represented a new age — the
age of steam, when steel bands bound the na-
tion into a unit and ended forever the slow
hardships of the overland trails with their
covered wagons.

Slowly but surely civilized men adjusted
themselves to the age of machines. They
adapted themselves to the new environment
with its increased tempo. It became .a part
of life so that, by the time the grand-children
of these men were born, the machine age
was an expected environment. Men were
living in a period of progress, yet the back-
ward ones were afraid of trains for a long,
long time.

New Age of Wonders

Today we are living in the most excit-
ing, fascinating years in the history of the
world. A new age of wonders is rushing
toward us through time with the speed of
a supersonic plane. We are moving into a
new and unknown environment. New ex-
periences lie ahead. And what happens ? The
world gets on a jittery pogo stick and

POGO STICK 83

bounces back and forth, terrified. Why?

The reason is simple. Civilized man has
slowly adapted his brain, body and nervous
system to the changes which turned the past
into the age which is ending. But only the
more advanced thinkers, the scientists have
kept pace with the new age which is becom-
ing a fact with lightning speed.

You and I have dreamed about space-
travel. We’ve read stories about it until a
trip to Mars seems commonplace. Now we
are on the verge of seeing interplanetary
travel come true. Many of us will live to
see spaceships take off from the earth. But
it’s going to take a lot of adapting on the
part of the vast majority to get accustomed to
the wonders that are coming.

To this day, and we’ve had airplanes since
1903, millions of people refuse to travel
by plane. Of course other millions do travel
by air — more ever}’ day. And those who do
not fly have become accustomed to seeing
planes drone past overhead.

People under thirty years of age take
flying for granted l)ecause planes were com-
mon when they were born. Their children
are coming into the world with air travel as
a part of their “expected environment

That means their nervous systems inherit
the adjustments made to environment by
their parents and grandparents. To them
there is no great wonder about man’s ability
to fly because he was flying many years
before they were born.

Coming — Atomic Power

We know in a general way what the next
dozen years will bring. There will be atom-
powered motors to drive battleships at previ-.
ously unheard of speeds. There will be other
motors, when the testing period is past, to
run passenger ships and trains and planes
and private cars.

Sealed motors will be set up on isolated
ranches — motors which, once started, will
run continuously for fifty years! The only
requirement will be occasional lubrication.
We know all that. But what do we really
know about ourselves ?

We’ve studied and analyzed everything on
earth, animal, vegetable and mineral — except
our own brains ! Isn’t it about time science
fiction opened that door? Let’s try to find
out what makes the dynamo operate. Maybe
we can get this world off its pogo stick and
settle down to living!

84 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

You probably studied your anatomy and Did you ever look in a mirror at your

biological data well enough to know the way
the life-cell is formed, with the chromosomes
and genes pairing off to determine every fea-
ture and detail which makes up your physical
body. Did you ever stop to think that this
hereditary planning also applies to your
brain ?

Many of us are apt to think of the spinal
cord like the little boy who told the teacher,
“The spinal cord is a rope that holds the
backbone together. Your head sits on one
end and you sit on the other.” Actually it
is a signal system that puts a Western Union
cable system to shame!

The brain is the greatest thought manu-
facturing plant the world has been able to
produce. We know that, of course, when we
stop a moment to consider it. Yet it is only
within the last half-century that psychiatry
has grown to popular acceptance !

Psychiatrists are the garagemen, the
mechanics, who tune up the mental motor
when it doesn’t work right. Maybe my ref-
erence isn’t properly respectful- — but that’s
what they are. And we’ve had airplanes as
long as we’ve had psychiatrists !

Mecho — Madness

But wait a minute ! There’s a point there.
Until our inventions began to outstrip our
ability to become adapted to them quickly,
perhaps men had no need for psychiatrists.
It’s machinery that has tended to increase
the rate of insanity, the doctors tell us —
machinery and noise, concentrations of popu-
lation, the roar of the city.

A low hum that never stops until you run
away to the country to get away from it and
rest. It will require at least three more gen-
erations before the roar of the city and the
constant hum of machinery becomes an ex-
pected environment of the newborn children.

Meantime the brain goes on producing
thoughts continuously, and the combined
brains of our scientists continue to think
of new elements of the earth to conquer.
Each of us, during his lifetime, supplies
some constructive thought which works for
the good of all mankind.

That is because we are individuals, living
individual lives — not slaves, thinking as they
are told to think. But do you know HOW
thoughts are formed? Very few people even
stop to consider that, yet it is simple even
while it seems complex

own image and snap your fingers because it
reminded you of something you had forgot-
ten to do? You probably have, or looked
at something else that recalled something
to your mind. That’s what reminded means,
of course.

Your eye signaled what it saw to the brain,
which recorded that sight in the memory
record. The recording nerve immediately
signaled back, “This is a duplication — in
part — of a previous recording,” and im-
mediately played back the other record.

That’s when you snapped your fingers.
It’s as simple as that, like one of those
complex business machines. Only the brain
is much more elaborate than any machine
ever made by man.

How Come?

How did it get that way? That too is
simple. A single-celled animal requires a
single nerve only, so it can feel. The more
complex a body is, the more nerve ends are
required to signal feelings of heat, of cold, of
pain from a cut, telling the body to draw
away from danger.

A body as big and complex as that of a
lizard or a frog has nerves enough so that a
central headquarters is needed to clear the
messages. That central switchboard is the
simple brain, which hooks the sight, hearing
and muscular control up so they work to-
gether for cause and effect. It is the begin-
ning of thought Hearing or seeing danger
makes the body immediately move away to
escape.

In our human bodies we still have that
simple nerve system with its switchboard,
though it has become more elaborate. But in
order to maintain control over the entire
body our brains have developed a system of
twenty such switchboards, like a huge tele-
phone system.

They control the reflexes. They keep the
heart going and the lungs and the other
organs about which we never waste a
thought unless we are sick. And these switch-
boards are self-operating. They are indepen-
dent thought centers actually living within
your brain and mine. Among them they make
up the subconscious mind.

But over these switchboards is a mastet
control office which we call the conscious
mind. Much of the time this is the only part
of the brain we realize anything about! Too

WORLD ON A

many of the people in the world are like that.
So the world gets on its pogo stick and
doesn’t know why ! It bounces this way and
that, fearful of the unknown.

Fear Is Foolish

Fear seems silly, when you look at it that
way and understand its mechanical opera-
tion. You never feel fear for anyone except
yourself. You feel anxiety for someone else,
but fear for yourself. Both are mechanical
operations of the brain.

You may fear to get too close to a whirl-
pool. That is because twenty thought centers
frantically signal to the master switchboard,
saying, “We can’t keep our systems operat-
ing if the body falls in. Past impressions tell
us that from other generations.”

And because these thought centers do not
operate with words they can simply signal
danger. The conscious mind, catching all
these danger-signals coming at once, applies
logic to them and associates them with the
whirlpool.

The immediate reaction is to grab some-
thing, or back away.

But in that instant all the attention of the
various control centers was given to signal-
ing danger. Sometimes the intensity of the
attempt to “get headquarters on the wire” is
such that the counter signal to the muscles
fails to get proper attention.

In that case the body doesn’t move and we
say it was “ paralysed with fright” or "rooted
to the spot ” — or even “my heart stopped
beating for a minute”. And that might be
literally true !

On the other hand the anxiety you con-
sciously feel for others is a logical reaction erf
conscious thought. You see a man in danger
and pull him safely away from it. Meantime
the recorded vision of his danger and your
mental signals to your body to pull him
back, have been passed through the thought-
centers of your brain.

They did not see him, but they catch your
thought and, immediately reacting to the im-
pulse, respond with automatic danger
thoughts. That is why you might say, “I
was calm at the moment, but afterward I
felt weak and trembly."

These independent thought centers, the
reflex controls, were not developed by this
generation. They are inherited brains devel-
oped throughout long ages of time. Their
recorded memories are records erf the past —

POGO STICK 85

records more complete than we often realize.
Unused parts of the body become atrophied,
like the appendix.

But the brain doesn’t atrophy. It is alive,
pulsating, active every minute of every day
from before you are born until after you die !
Even while you sleep, resting your conscious
mind, the brain is operating. The central
offices are operating the heart, the lungs, the
liver, the flow of blood — even, sometimes,
sending messages through to the conscious
in the form of dreams.

The Record Maker

We only use a small portion of our brain
actively, so logic says the balance is the store-
house of memories. Every minute of your
life is recorded there. You may forget some
erf those minutes consciously, but the record
is there in the storehouse, set down for future
reference. It needs only the right impulse to
be recalled to your attention.

The independent thought centers which
form the unconscious and keep the body
functioning have memory recordings also.
Their operation is not based on your con-
scious thoughts, but on their own — and those
thoughts are based on the memory record-
ings of past generations, even erf ages past
when each was the only brain controlling its
body. So the history of the entire race since
life began is actually recorded in your brain.
If only we could gain conscious access to
these records and read them !

You will notice that I talk as though you
had an ancestry that stretches back farther
than the oldest royal families of Europe. You
have, of course, one that goes back just as
far. It can’t go any farther! Life is contin-
uous and every person alive today has an an-
cestral line as old as every other living per-
son.

There is no such thing as an orphan from
the standpoint of "not having parents.” You
might not know who your parents were. You
might not know their names, nationalities or
habits — but you are your parents and theirs
to the beginning of time !

You have inherited their thoughts to some
extent, their likes and dislikes, their apti-
tudes and skills. Like clings to like and if
you pay attention to the things which appeal
to your brain and body you will find your
place in the world — and will carry on the
multitudinous skills and arts developed by
your ancestors.

thrilling wonder stories

86

The Chinese are an ancient people. Their
habits and philosophy contain an ancient
wisdom. The meaning of some of it may be
lost, but we can always learn by observation.
Sometime, in the dim obscurity of the past,
they looked back to their ancestors for guid-
ance.

Perhaps they held the secret of reading
their unconscious thoughts, those which were
inherited. If so they found wisdom there, and
guidance. Isn’t it just possible that, as the
years drifted into centuries and they lost this
contact with the unconscious mind, the leg-
ends of ancestral wisdom became “ancestor
worship t”

There is reason behind everything man
does in this world. Sometimes we don’t see
the reason — but it’s there.

Primitjve men in the very dawn of civiliza-
tion tried to blank out the thoughts that
originated in the unconscious mind and gov-
ern their actions only bv conscious thought.
They did this because the unconscious was
too often governed only by unbridled emo-
tions and savage reactions.

It was necessary for men to restrain the
desire to kill just because they were angry
if they wished to live together. They succeed-
ed in putting up a curtain between the con-
scious and unconscious — succeeded only too
well !

Because, as the centuries of civilization
passed, much that was stored in the uncon-
scious was no longer unbridled emotion but
helpful experiences and knacks and skills —
and warning against the mistakes made by
recent generations.

Road to Success

The ability to accept the messages sent
through to the conscious mind on occasion,
actually to work with the skills and desires
of one or more of the stronger thought cen-
ters, inevitably leads to success. It combines
the hereditary knowledge gained in a past
generation with the conscious guidance of a
mind educated in the present.

This ability is sometimes called genius.
Please note that the word generation could
easily be spelled out as gene-ration, and the
word genius could as easily have been devel-
oped as gene-ius.

Invention results from thought, so the
preparation of both body and mind for the
acceptance of new conditions must also come
as the result of thought. And thoughts are

created through the reflections of past ex-
periences, plus the logic of the conscious
mind, bringing them into perspective with
the present. A purely mechanical operation
— mental mechanics ! But where does that
leave us? We want to get the world off its
pogo stick.

Well, it leaves us with a new respect for
the study of genealogy, not for the sake of
knowing who your ancestors were but of
learning what they did best — of finding out
their physical weaknesses so the doctor will
know what causes trouble when you are
seriously sick with a heart ailment or some
other hereditary difficulty.

It leaves us with the knowledge that the
fears which the world has of the new age
that’s coming are due to the fact that we face
a new experience.

We know that the fears come from the
unconscious mind — not from the forward-
looking conscious mind.

It leaves us with a tremendous respect for
the Monk, Gregpr Mendel, whose experi-
ments with garden peas proved that heredi-
tary lines can be traced through a single
parent and that characteristics are hereditary.
In a later article we shall demonstrate how
accurately Mendel’s Law applies to the
human brain and how each of us can deter-
mine for himself what he can do best.

A New Understanding

It leaves us with a new understanding of
our own brains. We know, suddenly and
clearly, that the brain is like a twentv-mule
team, and that the conscious mind is the
driver. Every one of the mules has an inde-
pendent thinking brain — but the driver har-
nesses them and keeps them in line.

He makes them work for him, makes them
pull his load, keep in line and behave. If the
road were suddenly blocked by some un-
known force — say a gigantic steam-roller —
perhaps the mules would tend to shy, or kick,
in panic. But the conscious mind would hold
a firm rein, would calm their fears and drive
them past the obstacle.

The driver has logic to help him calm the
mules. He knows the road-block is only a
machine, whereas the mules know only that
they have never seen anything like it before
and that it must therefore mean sudden
death !

This then is the secret of why the world is
on a pogo stick! The vast majority of the

WORLD ON A POGO STICK

population is influenced by fears created by
the unconscious thought centers in the brain.
Past generations have never experienced
anything comparable to nuclear fission. They
do not understand it and, like the mules, feel
it can only mean sudden death ! Where are
the conscious minds, the drivers ? Why have
they lost control ?

Once we think our way through to under-
standing, fear fades because it is simply the
defensive reaction of instinct against the un-
known. The brain not only adapts itself to
the present development but conditions the
nervous system to accept the future.

Nuclear fission, in chain reaction, has al-
ready meant sudden death — yet the world
lives! Even Japan lives — and faces a future
free from " thought police” for the first time.
Why not point out the glories of the new
age that nuclear fission can bring to the
earth ?

Let’s Get Around

You and I know what it can and will mean
because our thoughts are free to roam the
galaxies. For many years we have been
thinking in terms of this age that is now upon
us, and have lulled the fears which existed in
these thought centers of our unconscious
minds.

But the world at large is not as well pre-
pared as ourselves. Much of it is backward
from our standpoint. Its peoples are not
taught, as we in America have been, to think
freely the thoughts we desire to think.

The logic of the conscious mind is con-
structive. It seeks new ideas and experi-
ments. You and I do not want to stand still.
We want to progress, mentally and ma-
terially, and the greatest unexplored area
left on earth is behind your eyes, between
your ears!

But suppose the conscious mind, the driver,
loses control over his twenty-mule team ?
Ah -hah! Now we’re coming to it. Suppose
the mules reared and kicked, tangled the har-
ness, backed against the wagon and made the
rider fall out of his seat? At that moment
the twenty mules would cease to be a team.

Each would struggle blindly, madly, to
break away, to save himself. You can
imagine the confusion, the screams, the brays,
the snapping of leather against struggling
bodies — all because there was no driver in
control, no master control office to clear the
signals.

87

You, as an observer, would know the
mules couldn’t break away. You would know
that only tragedy and broken bones could
result from their struggle. You would know
instantly that the only chance of saving the
mules was to help Ihe driver regain his seat,
get the reins into his hands and resume con-
trol.

In those two last paragraphs you and I
have been exploring the brain — but fast.
Read them over again if you didn’t read care-
fully, because they give you an inkling as to
what insanity actually is like.

Drive With Care

To work with your mules, understanding
them but keeping them under firm control, is
to get the most from them. But the instant
they gain control over you your load is
wrecked ! Remember, each has a brain which
thinks first of self preservation, but each of
these twenty brains depends on your judg-
ment and your firm guiding hand.

The mules may stop suddenly without your
orders when you come to a bridge. If they do
stop don’t scold— INVESTIGATE. Per-
haps the bridge is weak and they know it.
That is how you get a hunch. Don’t ignore
hunches. They are messages from thought
centers in the unconscious mind and there
is a reason for every one of them.

And don’t forget that when we talk about
our twenty-mule team we are actually talk-
ing about the twenty independent thought
centers in your brain. You (your conscious
self) are the driver. You have tremendous
power in your control if you can learn to use
it efficiently.

The average person lets the team meander
along the road so long as they keep plodding
along in the right direction. But that isn’t
the way to get the best results, either from a
twenty-mule team or from your brain. There
are bound to be one or two, perhaps three
mules among the twenty who appear brighter
than the others, more alert and ready to
help.

One of them may like to help pull a load
on the road, the second may have a fond-
ness for carrots, the third may love to romp
and roll in the pasture. If you are a wise
driver you’ll make friends with these three as
best you can.

Let the one who likes to work with you
be the lead mule, the guide at the head of
the line. Be sure you raise some carrots for

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

B8

the second one as his reward for helping
with the load. And don’t fail to let the third
romp in the pasture at the end of the haul.

Battle of the Brains

It that picture clear ? The conscious mind
is apt to choose — and it should — the occupa-
tion desired by one of the stronger thought-
centers in the unconscious mind. But there
may be a desire almost as strong for some
other type of work because of the heredity
represented by a second thought-center.

Make that your avocation, your part-time
work at home, your hobby, and that thought-
center will cooperate to help make your main
job easy so as to be rewarded later.

Let your recreation satisfy a basic desire
also and you will be satisfying the third
strong thought center in your brain. It too
will cooperate to make your work more
efficient because when the time for relaxation
comes it will find self-expression.

These are the elements in life which create
a well-balanced personality. There is no
place, in a brain which satisfies the desire
of three thought-centers of its unconscious,
for nervousness or for a feeling of frustra-
tion. With three satisfactory outlets of ex-
pression you cannot be frustrated. That is
the way brilliant minds work and fear has no

place in such a program.

I suspect that science fiction represents the
avocation of many of us. It is a good one.
That is why we become interested in it.
There is bound to be one strong thought
center in a lot of us that wants travel, excite-
ment, adventure, exploration.

Many of us had at least one ancestor who
crossed unknown oceans seeking those very
things and his traits may be descended to
us in this thought center in the unconscious
mind. Science fiction can satisfy that desire
perfectly, because of the impressions made
on our conscious minds and transmitted to
the unconscious.

But the brain is not sufficiently easy to
analyze to enable me to give a complete pic-
ture in these few pages. It is made up of
traits inherited from a few — but not from all
— of your ancestors. You had, for example,
64 great-great-great-great grandparents — ■
and you are not descended from all of them.

You can’t be, because there are only 48
chromosomes in the life cell ! The odds are
that you have gained important traits from
not more than twenty ancestors — three of
them are important to you. It is well to
know how to find out who these three are
In the following issues a method will be out-
lined so that you can determine this for
yourself.

IN THE NEXT ISSUE

F. ORLIN TREMAINE

Continues This Fascinating Series With

FROM PEAS TO HORSES TO MEN

Another Provocative Special Feature!

When the " oiganizingesf of robots goes
back in time to check on the invention
of the wheel, history takes a zany turn!

an Orig Prem story by

BENJ.

MILLER

ATURALLY a lot of strange tilings
had happened aronnd the Heptagon,
but certainly never before the year
2232 had a giant copper-skinned Indian in
feathers and full war regalia ever chased one
of Solar News' star reporters through the
halls of the Time-Travel Wing. And right
at the time when Smullen was in an extra

ON ME

bad humor and had threatened to fire the
reporter anyway.

Every time old Pain-in-the-Face made a
swipe at him with a flint hatchet, StWe

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

90

Andro, panting for breath, would jump side-
wise and the dozens of Solar News em-
ployees standing in the halls would laugh
at him.

But it wasn’t funny. The sweat pouring
down Stieve’s backbone was real and the
anxiety on his face was honest. Stieve was
running for his life — and the Indian from
1492 was in a lot better condition than was
Stieve in 2232.

“Help! Help!” Stieve’s voice sounded
pitiful, for it was all he could do to gasp the
words out. But the technicians, gathered at
the door of the Calendar Department,
laughed uproariously. Stieve raced down the
hall and leaped onto the fast walk and kept
running.

The big Indian saw him getting away. He
looked at the walk and then he stepped onto
it. Immediately the walk yanked his feet from
under him and he fell with a thud that shook
the entire sixty-second floor of the Hepta-
gon.

Stieve was just rounding the corner when
he looked back. He groaned. The helpful
technicians from Calendar were assisting the
big Indian to his feet. The Indian came
after Stieve with giant strides and in just
about a minute he was breathing on Stieve’s
neck again. The hatchet grazed Stieve’s
right parietal lobe and very nearly clipped
off his ear.

Stieve was tired. His feet were hard to
lift. He stumbled. The big Indian fell over
him. Stieve tried to get back up but couldn’t.
His muscles were so tired they were half
paralyzed.

The big Indian got to his feet. The hatchet
poised. He grabbed Stieve’s hair in one
hand. Stieve closed his eyes and prepared
to face death with dignity. The Indian bel-
lowed, “Now yoti behavum or I scalpum you
— but good ! ”

Stieve gasped. His eves opened in hope-
ful incredulity. “Chief,” he said, “that’s a
horse on me. What do you want?”

“Ugh! I from Guanahani. I from four-
teen ninety-two. I was cop at arrival of
Columbus. You remember me?”

“Yes,” said Stieve with a sinking feeling.
Smullen, the head of Time-Travel, would be
furious when he heard of this. Smullen had
enough to worry about already. It was bad
enough to have an Indian that should have
been a Minnesota fullback chasing up and
down the halls with a hatchet — but what
would Smullen say if Stieve got into a legal

tangle with the cops of 1492?

“I here on behalf of my daughter.”
“Oh,” Stieve wilted. “I didn’t promise to
marry your daughter, mister,” he said ear-
nestly.

“Oh, no. We not trying to find her a
husband. But Orig Prem promisum her a
screen-test. Where is screen test? On sec-
ond thought, where is Orig Prem?”

“On third thought, let me up,” said
Stieve, beginning to see light, “and we'll fig-
ure this out." He sat up and looked around.
He was surprised there wasn’t a crowd
there.

T HEN he saw why. He almost fainted
when he saw they were just outside of
Smullen’s office.

“If we don’t get away from here before
Smullen catches us there’ll be plenty of trou-
ble.” He began to push himself up. The
Indian gave ground slowly. But Stieve was
a lot more afraid of Smullen than he was
of the Indian. He pushed the Indian back
and got to his feet.

“Come on,” he ordered. “We’ll have a
cup of coffee and talk this thing over.”
“Now, then,” he said while he stirred his
coffee, “when did this promise take place?
You didn’t say anything about it before. And
say!” He was struck by a sudden thought.
“How did you get into twenty-two thirty-
two anyway ?”

“Oh, that easy.” The big Indian took four
lumps of sugar. “This much easier than
chewing sugar-cane,” he said. “I jumpum
in time-travel tube while your assistant, Orig
Prem, lecturing to ladies’ aid on Holly-
wood.”

“Hey! When was this? Today, you
mean ?”

“As of fourteen ninety-two,” the big In-
dian said gravely. “Or, rather, it fourteen
ninety-three in Guanahani now.”

“So that’s the deal.” Stieve nodded know-
ingly. “Prem, the robot, is back there mak-
ing some extra change. How much is he
charging the ladies to tell them about the
movies ?”

“Six bits a head. Me think that very high
for fourteen ninety-two, but ladies’ aid will-
ing to pay anything to hear more about
Hollywood.”

“How many in the aid?” asked Stieve.
“Twenty-two.”

“So,” Stieve said between gritted teeth,
“Prem, the little organizer, is at work giv-

A HORSE ON ME 91

mg the ladies their money’s worth. Will I
ever raise cain with Medlock for sending
Prem through without an authorization !
Now look, Chief.”

The big Indian drew himself up straight.
“Me listen,” he said gutturally.

"You go back to fourteen ninety-three
and send Orig Prem home. Tell him I said
so. And I’ll promise you a nineteen thirty
screen test for your daughter if I have to
wring it out of Prem’s steel hide.”

“Hokay, chief. I mean, hokay, paleface.
Pardon me, I chief — you paleface.”

“That’s a deal. Now to get you home.
You can’t go today. That’s against the no-
doubling rule.” Stieve groaned. “I might
as well hide you in my suite until tomorrow.
Medlock will never let us through twice in
one day. You can sleep on the divan in my
private office tonight. I suppose Prem will
sleep on the beach at Guanahani. I hope,”
he added viciously, “he gets sand in his
joints.”

For the first time in his seven years at
Solar News, Stieve was up the next morning
before a lot of people got to work. Such was
one of the irksome developments of an en-
tertainment policy of near-galactic dimen-
sions which, via time machines and abetted
by such robots as Orig Prem, brought happy
audio-video listeners of the twenty-third cen-
tury not merely re-enactments of famous
moments in history but the famous moments
themselves.

The results, thought Stieve, could at times
be annoying, especially when they cut in on
his sleep. However, a promise was a prom-
ise and he had the big Indian made up in
his feathers and took him around to Transi-
tion and was standing there when they
opened the door at seven.

Medlock, in charge of time-traffic, didn’t
like it particularly, but Stieve said, “I’m sure
you don’t want Smullen to know how you’ve
been sneaking back to five hundred A. D. to
watch the Mayas build their pyramids.”

Medlock glared at him.

“Nor would Smullen, in his present mood,
be pleased to know that you are in the habit
of leaving your dope-headed android in
charge of traffic.”

Medlock swallowed. “That’s just because
you’re a robot man,” he argued.

“Yes, I’m old fashioned. But I want to
say that I have no intention of telling Smul-
len anything.” He made a gesture with his
hands flat and parallel with the floor.

“Okay. Tell old Pain-rn-the-Face to crawl
in the capsule,” grumbled Medlock. “But
it’s blackmail.”

“Me not Pain-in-the-Face, me Chief Cook-
and-Bottle- Washer,” the big Indian said
proudly. He looked at their wide eyes and
added, “That Orig Prem’s title for me. He
say that a very fine old tradition of white
man.”

Stieve bit his tongue to keep a straight
face. The chief still had his hatchet. “Look,
now, Chief, just get in the capsule, will you,
and send Orig Prem back here as soon as
possible. If you don’t, he’ll have the whole
island of Guanahani disorganized.”

“Prem,” said Medlock, “is the world’s
best organizer.”

Stieve ignored the jab. “Pull the switch,
Medlock, before things get out of control.”

M EDLOCK pulled it. There was a
blur and the time capsule disap-
peared. Stieve sighed with relief. “Now,
then — ”

The omnicall bells sounded. Stieve turned.
“Mr. Andro,” said the voice, “see Mr. Smul-
len in his office right away, please.”

Stieve looked back. The capsule was still
gone. “Thank goodness,” he said fervently.
“Smullen can’t prove anything now.”

“No,” said Medlock dryly, “there weren’t
over eight hundred witnesses to your foot-
race yesterday.”

Stieve glowered at him, but the omnicall
kept saying, “Mr. Andro, see Mr. Smullen
in his office right away, please. Mr. An-
dro—”

Stieve unplugged the playback. “Coming,”
he said glumly.

Stieve could just see Smullen’s bald head
with the gray fringe around the top. He
stood for a moment, quaking, and then he
coughed. Smullen dropped his paper.

“Oh, you,” he said. Stieve couldn’t decide
whether it was disgust or relief. But now
he could get a clear view of Smullen’s face,
and what he saw was encouraging. Smullen
y.'2's worried. The lines around his mouth
' were deep, and his eyes had brown splotches
under them. In spite of himself, Stieve felt
sorry for Smullen. After all, Smullen had
put up with a lot from him and Orig Prem.
“What’s the trouble?” Stieve asked.

“I had a report yesterday from the board.
They claim the gross income from the nine
planets for the last thirty days dropped al-
most a billion — twelve per cent, to be exact.

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

92

Jupiter pulled out half of their contribution
and that hurt.”

"What’s eating on Jupiter?” asked Stieve.

"They claim we're taking it too easy.
We’re not giving them anything worth
while.”

Stieve exploded.

Smullen held up his hand. “It’s political
pressure, I think. The Outer Planet League
is putting on the heat. But that doesn’t help
us. We’ve got to do something sensational
or significant or we’ll all be losing our jobs.”

“They can fire you,” Stieve said indig-
nantly. “You’re the one who applied time-
travel to news.”

"I’m afraid that doesn’t cut any ice.
You’re the man who made the Three Hun-
dred Years Ago Today feature the most pop-
ular in the Morning Telepaper too — but
don’t ever,” he said ominously, “get the idea
that you are absolutely indispensable to Solar
News.”

“No, sir,” Stieve said hastily.

Smullen sat back, and his face was twisted
with a big frown. “The worst of it is, three
days ago I persuaded Murphy to take a
leave from his Middle Ages Run in Europe
to do a special on the sack of Samarkand by
Jenghiz Khan in twelve nineteen.”

“How did you ever get Murph to leave
his soft berth in One Thousand Years Ago
Today?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Smullen admitted glum-
ly. "He had just finished the Crusades and
he hollered for a rest, but I promised him
double time and a month’s bonus if he would
do this feature for us. The trouble is, he has
been in Samarkand two months by their
time, and we haven’t had word from him —
and no timecast.”

“Was his android with him?”

“Yes.”

“That explains it,” Stieve said positively.
“You put an android back in time like that
and they always get things balled up.”

Smullen shook his head wearily. “I know
you’re a robot man, but I have no desire to
referee a feud. All I want is a few good fea-
tures on the ether. Correction — also I want
to hear from Murph before his widow — par-
don me, his wife — gets in the hands of a
shyster lawyer who will sue Solar News for
more than Murph could ever possibly be
worth as a husband.”

Stieve really felt sorry for Smullen.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll tackle anything you
have picked out.”

S MULLEN looked at him as if to be
sure. Then he pulled out the assign-
ment book. “My idea is to take on a series
of events that are important as well as spec-
tacular. If they aren’t spectacular, we can
liven them up a little — fictionize them, you
might say.”

“Such as what?” asked Stieve, holding
his breath.

“Well — ” Smullen opened the book —
“such as the invention of the wheel, one of
the most important events in the history of
man.” He looked questioningly at Stieve.

Stieve’s mouth popped open. “That
means — ”

“I’ll tell you what the Probabilities De-
partment gave me. They say about eighteen
thousand B.C., just about the time Neolithic
man went into Europe and began to cultivate
the soil. The boys in Pre-History claim
that the wheel should have come into use
when man started raising crops.”

Stieve felt a little pale. “You mean — you
want me to go back before history? We’ve
never done that, Mr. Smullen.”

“All the more reason,” Smullen said,
“why it will go over with a bang now. We
could have a whole series, like the inven-
tion of the first animal trap, the invention
of the screw, the discovery of mathematics.
It could be an excellent series — and I really
think, Stieve, that you’re the man to do
them. ”

Stieve was resigned. “Knowing you. I’m
very much inclined to agree that you would
think that.”

Smullen ignored it. “Fortunately or un-
fortunately,” he went on dryly, “you have
no wife to whom your value might sud-
denly multiply in case of your — er — disap-
pearance. However,” he added hastily, “I
do not expect you to have any trouble.”
“Thanks. When do I start?”

“Well, let’s say tomorrow. Give us time
for a buildup.” Smullen arose. The frown
wasn’t quite as deep on his face. “Good
luck, Stieve. You’ve made me feel better
already. Let’s hope this series will help stave
off the wolves.”

“Yes, sir,” said Stieve. “I hope so.”
But Stieve didn’t feel very happy as he
rode the autowalk to Timecasts. He well
knew that the first man who had been sent
to a prehistoric time had not come back.
They hadn’t sent anyone since. Safety said
it was too dangerous.

Man had been too primitive in 18,000

A HORSE ON ME

B. C. Well — he shrugged. I! it would save
Smullen’s neck — anyway, this would be one
place where Orig Prem would not be able
to stir things the wrong way.

He made an agreement with Timecasts to
take the ether at eighty-two o’clock, decimal
time. That would be right after dinner in
New York.

He got back to his office about thirty-
eight o’clock, and as he opened the door to
his private office there was a clanking of
steel and Orig Prem drew his chrome-
plated body up to its full four feet three
inches and saluted.

“Good morning, sir,” he said cheerfully.
“I hope you had a good night’s rest, sir.”
Stieve glowered at him. “I hope you
didn’t.”

“But, sir—”

“But nothing. You see that turkey
feather on the divan?”

Orig’s pyrex eyes opened wide. “Yes, sir,
but—”

“No turkey left it there, Prem.”

Prem’s eyes opened wider in what un-
doubtedly was the built-in expression of in-
nocence. “But, sir — ” ^

“That was old Chief Cook-and-Bottle-
Washer, by your own christening.”

A slight tinge of pink suffused Orig’s
steel-plated face.

“You may well blush, Prem. And I shall
have more to say to you, a great deal more,
about the ladies’ aid and much more about
Chief C-and-B-W’s daughter who was prom-
ised a screen-test in Hollywood.”

Orig’s steel head was bowed and his eves
were downcast. “Yes, sir,” he said and his
metallic tones were filled with guilt.

Stieve stalked across the room to the
book-shelves. “Sometimes,” he said absent-
ly, “I think you forget that we represent the
twenty-third century, Prem.”

Orig still kept his eyes averted. “Yes,
sir,” he said humbly.

Stieve pulled out a book. Orig opened one
eye and fixed his telescopic vision on the
title.

“Are we going back to prehistoric man,
sir?” he asked diffidently.

Stieve nodded. “Invention of the wheel.
About eighteen thousand B.C.”

“Oh fine,” said Orig. His head came up
straight. “That would be in the late Paleo-
lithic or early Neolithic era.”

Stieve stared. “Is that the Stone Age?”
“Yes, sir,” Orig said. “In the latter part

93

of the Paleolithic era the Cro-Magnards in
what is now southern France were pushed
out by the Azilians, who began farming
rather than hunting.”

"Okay, but don’t be so happy about it,”
Stieve growled. “I’m plenty sore at you,
Prem.”

O RIG’S enthusiasm disintegrated abrupt-
ly. "Yes, sir.”

“Now, while I am figuring out what to
do with Chief C-and-B-W’s daughter — by
the way, what’s her name? No doubt you
have given her a good one.”

Orig licked his vanadium lips. He
squirmed. “I call her Madame Du Barry,”
he said finally.

Stieve studied him and under the scru-
tiny Orig seemed to shrink. “Some day,”
Stieve told him, “you’ll get yourself chased
back into the twenty-third century with your
rear side all dented up with buckshot.”
“Yes, sir,” said Orig penitently and, after
a moment of thought, he added, “Sir, I am
a most unhappy robot. I fear my conduct
has not been exemplary. I have not lived
up to my built-in principle — ‘A helpful robot
is a happy robot.’ Sir, I am eager to make
amends.”

“Okay. See Probabilities and get the ex-
act time, then go back about a month before
and check up on things. But remember —
no organizing.”

“But, sir, it may be necessary to organize
just slightly,” Orig argued. “After all, the
wheel is possibly man’s most important in-
vention and it probably wasn’t done in a
day, sir. I shall most likely have to drama-
tize it slightly to make it good entertainment
for your public.”

“Okay.” Stieve sighed. “But take it easy
this time. We certainly won’t need a pop-
corn stand.”

“Of course,” said Orig, “I may have to
teach them a few words of English.”

Stieve nodded unwillingly. “Please get
started,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Orig stood erect. His plates
were bright and shining, his head high.
“Wish me luck, sir.”

“With you going first,” Stieve said sour-
ly, “I’m the one who needs luck.”

Orig looked crestfallen but he turned and
went out bravely, his steel heels striking the
composition floor with unusual solidity. But
Stieve did not relent — not immediately any-
way. He would run up to Traffic later to
watch Prem leave.

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

94

Right now Stieve had Smullen to worry
about. Nobody knew better than Stieve how
tight the situation must be for Smullen to
send him back to 18,000 B.C. Ordinarily
Smullen was most careful with his men.

Stieve’s concern was not relieved the next
day when he learned that the Legal Depart-
ment had been served with a demand for one
hundred thousand dollars for ‘'uncalled-for
negligence in requiring a reporter to take un-
due risks.”

Smullen was really downcast. “A thing
like this could well mear the closing of Time-
Travel. It’s not the amount of money asked
for — which of course would be cut about
ninety per cent even if Mrs. Murphy should
get a judgment, because no reporter is worth
a hundred thousand — it’s not just that but
the fact that the board gets high blood pres-
sure every time it thinks of setting a prece-
dent for damages in time-travel. After all,
there’s no telling what some screwy jury
might do.”

“All this, of course, would take on a dif-
ferent aspect if Time-Travel should in the
meantime do something outstanding,” said
Stieve.

Smullen nodded. ‘‘That’s the general
idea.”

So, at eighty o’clock, Stieve picked up a
sheaf of communications from Orig Prem,
took them to Medlock and got into the cap-
sule. He gave Medlock a last warning.

“I don’t care what else you do but don’t
turn us over to that android of yours. He’s
likely to get us shunted out on some time-
stream that nobody could ever find again.”

“I resent the slur,” Medlock said with
dignity, “but I will honor your request.”

“Thanks.” Stieve pulled the lid clown.
There was a coruscating whirl of lights, the
sickish feeling for a moment, and then Stieve
braced himself for the free fall. He floated
to a stop, then the lid was thrown back and
Stieve sat up, blinking bis eyes.

H E GOT out cautiously, remembering
that this was 18,000 B. C. He was
standing on the edge of a long grassy slope.
Behind him was a forest. Before him, across
the meadow, was a mountainside dotted with
cave mouths.

Thin smoke was corning out of one cave.
Stieve started toward it. But he stopped
short. In front of him stood a giant. The
giant wore no shoes. His only clothing was
a brown reindeer hide. His massive chest

and shoulders were matted with hair.

Stieve bent far backward' to look all the
way up to the giant’s face. He was a Cro-
Magnard all right, tall, thick like an oak
tree— and glowering. He had a broad face
and a big nose, and he was carrying a heavy
war-club that Stieve could not have lifted
off the ground.

The giant spoke in a ponderous bass voice:
“What party you beloflg?”

Stieve controlled the impulse to run.
“Party? What party?” he asked.

The giant shifted the club and watched
Stieve with suspicious black eyes. “You talk
too much. You repeat yourself." He picked
the words slowly and carefully. “You Dem-
ocrat or Republican?”

Stieve gasped. He lost his fear of the
giant and began to think harsh things about
Orig Prem. He’d like to lay hands on his
assistant right now while he was in the mood
to punish him.

Prem knew better. The Legal Department
was constantly issuing warnings against in-
volvement in jjolitics. Now it wasn’t enough
for Prem that the Cro-Magnards were being
succeeded by the A/.ilians but the little robot
had to get busy and organize a whole po-
litical system.

But Stieve swallowed his anger and said,
“I’m a Fence-Sitter.”

The giant’s eyes lighted. “Ho,” he roared,
“a third-party man !” He shifted the club
on his shoulder and Stieve gulped.

“I suppose,” Stieve said, hastily changing
the subject, “that you know Mr. Orig
Prem.” ‘

The giant dropped his club to the ground
and the earth trembled. “I very good friend
of Mr. Prem.”

“Can you tell me where he is?”

The giant grinned. “Mr. Prem in forest,
getting float ready for big timecast.”

Stieve had a sinking feeling. “(Setting the
float ready?”

The giant frowned. “I repeat, you repeat
yourself. You make me unhappy.”

“Believe me,” said Stieve earnestly, “there
is nothing I would more dislike than making
you unhappy. But about the timecast —
when is it to take place?”

“Tonight,” said the giant. “Come along.
I tell you. I your guide.”

Stieve felt like a pygmy following the
caveman through the forest. “What’s your
name?” he asked.

“Davie Horsemeat. That name Mr. Prem

A HORSE ON ME

gave me. I eat much horsemeat,” he said
proudly. “That make me a big boy.”

“Yes,” Stieve said placatingly, "you’re a
very big boy. Where are we going now?”
"I take you to Mammoth City and intro-
duce you.” Davie squinted through the trees
at the sun. “You have time to get some-
thing to eat, then we go over to Forestville
for the timecast. Mr. Prem have a large
program arranged.”

"No doubt,” Stieve said dryly.

They walked out into a clearing filled with
stone huts. Steve listened intently to a reg-
ular thump — plink-a-thump — thump — plink-
a- thump.

“This is Thursday afternoon,” said Davie.
“Char editor, Jackie Mammothtusks, getting
off first run of Cro-Magnon Chronicle. Mr.
Mammothtusks says the press a relic but
the damn thing prints. ”

Stieve sucked in his breath. One thing
had always been understood between Prem
and him. Prem would not teach any natives
to use English swear words.

“Anyhow,” went on Davie Horsemeat,
"equipment very hard to get these days.”
' Equipment always has been hard to get
■ — out of the Smithsonian Museum,” Stieve
said dryly.

“Mr. Mammothtusks is going to play a
leading part in the enactment tonight.”
Stieve drew a deep breath. “What time
is the timecast?”

"Eight o’clock, soon as Queen of the
Wheel returns from good will trip to next
mountain. ”

S TIEVE groaned. “Queen of the Wheel,
eh?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Prem say everything very
modern and sophisticated. He say Miss
Wheel Queen most beautiful girl in Mam-
moth City. She my daughter,” Davie said
proudly. ■

Stieve looked shrewd. "Did Mr. Prem
possibly mention a screen test?”

“I believe he did,” Davie said thought-
fully. “He said winner of queen contest
always eligible for Hollywood.”

Stieve groaned. “If somebody doesn’t dull
that robot’s organizing principle we’ll have
all the time streams jammed up for ten thou-
sand years.” He looked at his watch. "Well,
it’s a couple of hours yet and no doubt by
this time Prem is handling the good will
tour. Let’s dispose of the eating now.”
“Score. I take you.”

95

A big neon sign said, “Neolithic Cafe.
Aged Mammoth Steaks a Specialty.” And
underneath, in small italic letters, it said,
“Endorsed by Orig Prem.”

Stieve snorted. “That endorsement does-
n’t mean a thing. Orig Prem doesn’t know
anything about food. He can’t eat.”

“He said it would attract tourists,” said
Davie doubtfully.

They went inside. "I’ll buy your din-
ner,” said Stieve. "It goes on the expense
account anyway.”

Davie Horsemeat looked genuinely regret-
ful. "Sorry, Mr. Stievandro. I have to get
the stage ready for the timecast. I see you
later, hey? Just follow the path to Forest-
ville. Only two miles.”

“Sure.” Stieve sat on a stone bench.
The waitress was almost as big as Davie.
She handed Stieve a menu that read, "Bar-
becued reindeer, bison roast, auroch cutlets,
wild horse tenderloin, fried caterpillars.”
Those items did not excite Stieve’s sali-
vary glands. “How about a nice bowl of
potato salad?” he asked. “And toast and
coffee.”

“Sorry, Mister,” the giantess said. “No
potato salad today. We don’t have potatoes
yet. Potatoes still in America. But I fix
you nice acorn relish.”

“I’ll try it,” Stieve said, hoping.

The acorn relish wasn’t bad but a little
difficult to eat without silverware. There
was about a peck of it and when Stieve got
halfway through he sat back with a big sigh.
He wiped his fingers on his handkerchief
and looked up to see the waitress at his side.
"How much is it?”

“Forty dollars,” she said cheerfully.
Stieve blinked. “Pll sign the check,” he
said.

“No,” she said. “That cash price.”
Stieve frowned. “Let’s be reasonable. I
haven’t that much money and you know it.
By the way, who set those prices, anyway?”
"Those tourist prices suggested by Mr.
Prem. He says tourists feel gyped 2 they
not gypped.”

Stieve eyed her speculatively. "What if I
can’t pay ?”

“You pay, all right. My father Davie
Horsemeat. ”

“Ugh.” For the first time Stieve was
really uncomfortable. "Look, don’t I get a
dessert?”

"I bring you nice dish of wild cherries
and yewberries.” She left

96

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

So did Stieve. He left rather hurriedly.
Something told him not to cross Miss Horse-
meat — at least not within her reach. He
scooted across the small clearing, past the
thumping cylinder press in the office of the
Chronicle and down the trail to Forestville.

This second town was larger and it was
now filled with people in a holiday mood.
On every corner was a small caveboy sell-
ing helium balloons — "The latest scientific
toy" — and each one was imprinted with the
words "Orig Prem, Licensee."

Stieve grumbled. He worked his way
through the crowd toward the center of
town, and had just come within sight of a
log structure which he recognized as the
timecast booth, like a small bandstand in
the middle of a street, when he heard yells.

A WAGON drawn by four reindeer cov-
ered with leaves and flowers came into
sight at the other end of the street. On a
skin-covered dais in the center of the wag-
on, under a great papier mache wheel which
turned slowly, with each spoke throwing a
different color of light, stood Miss Cro-
Magnard — or, rather, Miss Horsemeat.

She wasn’t as rugged as her sister in the
restaurant. She was young and curvy and
her complexion was a soft suntan. She
should have been Miss Whistlestop.

As Stieve thought of that, he whistled.
She turned a dizzying smile upon him.

Then Stieve’s eyes narrowed. There was
Prem, sitting at Miss Wheel Queen’s feet,
as smug and cocky as a four-foot three-inch
robot could be.

Stieve watched the float go by and then
he stared. This float had wheels. But a
small sign on the back reassured him — ■
"Pardon us. Wheels not invented yet but
used on this wagon by special dispensation
of Orig Prem.”

Stieve’s jaws hardened. Who was Prem
anyway to be issuing dispensations like that ?
He’d have a talk with Prem.

He followed the float. There was much
cheering, with hairy giants tossing their
dubs into the air indiscriminately, and Stieve
watched pretty carefully to avoid being be-
neath one erf those clubs on the way down.

He realized there were some boos mixed
with the cheering. Then unexpectedly Orig
Prem was at his elbow. “Welcome, sir. I
saw you in the crowd.” Orig was most
cheerful.

“Okay,” Stieve said gruffly. “But why

did you have to organize political parties for
this affair? Don’t you know this is an elec-
tion year in twenty-two thirty-two? Isn’t
that enough for you ?”

Prem looked contrite. “But, sir, I could
not arouse any enthusiasm for this timecast
until I announced an election for a queen.
Then and only then, sir, I gave the two
parties names. Innocently, sir. Cross my
heart — pardon me, I mean my electrostatic
amplifier. ”

“Listen to those boos. It sounds to me as
if you’ve let your realism go further than
mere names.”

"Oh,” said Prem easily, "everything is
under control, sir. Pardon me, here we are
at the timecasting stand, sir. I’ll hdp you

Stieve began to feel nervous. He won-
dered if the Democrats, or Azilians, had had
a candidate. And if so, how had the Cro-
Magnards won the election? Weren’t they
supposed to be decreasing in numbers now?

Orig was making an announcement into
the microphone. Stieve looked around the
booth. He recognized the big-boned Cro-
Magnards on one side and he assumed the
smaller, darker men on the other side were
the Azilians.

A great reindeer-skinned caveman stepped
to the microphone and, at a nod from Prem,
the Cro-Magnard began to speak.

“Ladies, gentlemen. Pardon me, ladies do
not have suffrage yet. Gentlemen. We here
for great celebration, invention of the wheel.
Man’s most significant event. Without wheel
future generations would not have can-
openers, baby-buggies, or steam-rollers. Cro-
Magnards very proud to have invented
wheel.”

He bowed. The Cro-Magnards cheered
while the Azilians maintained a stony silence.
Stieve began to feel strangely uncomfortable.

Then an Azilian addressed the micro-
phone. “We happy to be here on this glor-
ious occasion. We remind our Cro-Magnon
brothers that invention of the wheel was
decided by ballot, not by facts. We remind
listeners that history shows we shall succeed
Cro-Magnards. We suggest listeners think
very solemnly before trying to change course
of history.”

He sat down. There were cheers from
the Azilians. The Cro-Magnards were not
silent. They booed.

“Sounds like a baseball game m Brook-
lyn,” Stieve observed to Prem.

A HORSE ON ME

“Oh, don’t mind, sir.” Prem’s metallic
voice was reassuring but Stieve thought
there was a gleam of uncertainty in Prem’s
pyrex eyes.

A Cro-Magnard got up and went to the
microphone.

"Hey, what is this?” asked Stieve, “a
marathon ?”

"Sir,” Orig Prem said earnestly, “I had
to promise them a chance to talk to get them
here to furnish color for the timecast.”

A spot was clearing in front of the stand.
In the center was the giant Davie Horse-
meat, leaning on his club. Orig turned the
klieg-lights on Davie, signaled Distribution
up in 2232 and spoke into the microphone.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen of the twenty-
third century, you are about to witness the
most historic incident in the history of man-
kind — the invention of the wheel, in the year
eighteen thousand fifteen B. C. The wheel
is man’s only true invention. All others of
man’s so-called inventions are actually adapt-
ations but the one thing Nature did not in-
vent is the wheel.”

HE crowd cheered.

“I may say that the decision as to
who actually invented the wheel was the sub-
ject of a friendly rivalry between the Azil-
ians and the Cro-Magnards, the former
claiming it was invented to move their crops,
the latter holding it was first used to trans-
port meat to camp after the kill.

“The argument was settled by an election
in which the Cro-Magnards were victorious
by two cracked heads — pardon me, by a
slight margin.” Prem coughed discreetly.
“You will now see a reconstructed on-the-
spot dramatization of man’s greatest inven-
ton.”

Davie Horsemeat disappeared in the trees.
A moment later a bison came out, grazing.
Davie felled it with a club, and stood for a
moment licking his lips, his eyes big and
white in their sockets.

Orig nudged Stieve. “Good actor, isn’t
he?”

Stieve frowned. “I hope he doesn’t take
a bite out of that bison’s withers.”

But Davie remembered his lines. He tried
to put the bison on his great shoulders but
it was too heavy. He dropped it after a
struggle and stood there wiping the sweat
from his massive brow. Then he leaned
against the carcass. It moved!

He studied it, wrinkling his brow. He

97

pushed it. It moved again. He looked un-
derneath and discovered a big rock under
the bison, a round rock that rolled.

“And that,” said Orig Prem at the micro-
phone, “is the first step in the invention of
the wheel. Act Two follows.”

The clearing was dark for a moment, then
the lights came on and Davie Horsemeat,
assisted by another giant who, Stieve as-
sumed, was Jackie Mammothtusks, pushed
a big canoe out into the clearing on short
pieces of log.

Then the two loaded the fallen bison into
the canoe and pushed it on out of the clear-
ing, Davie pushing, Jackie Mammothtusks
snatching up the logs as they dropped out
behind and running around in front to lay
them under the canoe again.

A great cheer went up from one side of
the crowd but Stieve noticed that the other
side was silent. Prem was saying, “That,
in brief, ladies and gentlemen of twenty-two
thirty-two, shows the first two steps. Mr.
Horsemeat and Mr. Mammothtusks will now
appear in the final climactic scene.”

The spotlight shifted to one edge of the
clearing. Davie Horsemeat came pushing a
large-sized log with a small hollow through
the center.

Stieve heard an Azilian say into the
microphone, “ — the two biggest hams before
Shakespeare.”

A great cloud of helium-filled balloons
with rocks tied to their strings traversed
short arcs into the clearing and settled down
around Davie, to the accompaniment of a
chorus of boos from the Azilians.

Clubs had been flying in the air from the
Cro-Magnards but suddenly the clubs began
to change direction. Instead of going straight
up they hurtled at the Azilians. The Azil-
ians sent back some flint-tipped arrows. A
Cro-Magnard fell. Then the Cro-Magnards
rushed in a body toward the Azilians.

Stieve began to see how the Cro-Mag-
nards had won the election. In a moment
the two halves of the crowd were battling
furiously. The timecast stand was emptied
as speakers of both sides leaped joyfully into
the fight. The battlers swayed against the
stand and it shivered. It was only boughs
tied together with vines, anyway. The na2
had not been invented.

Stieve began to look for a way out Then
a head appeared above the floor of the stand
and a Cro-Magnard vaulted up. Stieve re-
treated.

98 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

You no pay for your dinner,” the Cro-
Magnard said ominously, “and you no leave
tip. You come now and wash dishes for
me.”

Stieve stared at the ponderous arm reach-
ing for him, then at the Cro-Magnard’s face,
and recognized Miss Horsemeat. He side-
stepped and looked wildly for Orig Prem.
The little robot was not in sight. Stieve
ducked Miss Horsemeat’s clutching fingers
and dived for an opening in the crowd.

He slid halfway across the floor on his
stomach just as Davie Horsemeat vaulted
up over the edge of the platform. Stieve
catapulted into Davie’s big legs. Davie
grunted and sat down on Stieve. Stieve
gasped.

When he could get his breath he said,
“This, my friend, is definitely a horse on
me.”

Davie was grinning broadly from ear to
ear. “How I do? You think I get a con-
tract on Broadway? Huh?”

Stieve looked at him from under lowered
eyelids. “Sure,” he said without batting an
eyelash, “I'm looking for an agent now.”

D AVIE jumped up. He took Stieve un-
der his arm like a haunch of venison
and waded through the mob. He let Stieve
down when they were safe.

Stieve started to thank him but he heard
yells. They were pursued. Davie turned to
battle. Stieve turned to run. He sprinted
back through Mammoth City, down the trail
again, and vaulted into the time-capsule and
thankfully pulled down the lid. He was sorry
for Davie but he thought the big Cro-Mag-
nard could take care of himself.

He was still breathing hard when Med-
lock pulled back the lid and brought the
step.

“How was it?” asked Medlock.
“Unbelievable!” Stieve gritted. “Where’s
Prem ?”

Medlock suppressed a sly smile. “He’s
around somewhere.”

Stieve took the fast walk to his suite. A
message was there from Smullen. “Time-
cast from eighteen thousand B. C. best fea-
ture in years. The fight scene wonderful.
Very realistic. Still coming in. Congratula-
tions. Y ou have saved our necks. Smullen. ”

Stieve tossed it aside. He was too angry
even to gloat. He started to stamp out, but
came face to face with Orig Prem. Behind
Prem was Murphy, who had disappeared
two months ago. “Hi, Stieve,” said Murph.

Stieve swallowed. “Hi, Murph.”

“So?” Stieve said to Orig in a cold voice.

The robot nodded hastily. “I just hap-
pened to think — Murphy got lost at the same
time Medlock was watching the construction
of the Mayan pyramids. I looked up the
records. Murphy’s trip was handled by Med-
lock’s android and I, knowing that anything
might happen with an android — begging
your pardon, sir,” he said to Murphy, “I
forgot you’re an android man.” He ad-
dressed Stieve again.

“Anyway, the android sent Murph to the
Mayan pyramids instead of to Samarkand.
I went back to look and found him. ‘A help-
ful robot is a happy robot,’ you know," he
said brightly.

“You’re wiggling out fast,” said Stieve,
“but how about Madame du Barry’s screen
test ? How are you going to swing that ?”

Orig thoughtfully hesitated. “Well — ”

“Message for you, sir,” said a half-size
robot copy-boy.

“Thanks.” Stieve opened the envelope
and read the message. Then he looked up.
“Listen to this: ‘Jupiter renewed full Tele-
paper coverage. Probabilities advises they
misplaced a decimal point. It should have
been eighteen thousand B. C.’ ” Stieve
groaned.

“ ‘But never mind. Authorities don’t
agree. It was a good show anyway. Holly-
wood in nineteen forty-eight has just made
an offer for exclusive rights to the riot scene
in eighteen thousand B. C. What do you
suggest? Smullen.’ Well,” Stieve drew a
deep breath, “that takes care of Madame du
Barry.” But he was sarcastic when he added,
“Weil make them take her along with the
fight.”

Orig Prem was squirming now with hap-
piness.

“I’ll do it this time.” Stieve said reluc-
tantly to the robot. “I’ll help you out on
Madame du Barry but never again. And
one more thing” — he fixed an eagle eye on
Orig Prem — “where’s my cut on your lec-
ture fees from the ladies’ aid?”

Next Issue: ORIG PREM in MONSTERS FROM THE WEST

The Off Season

By RAY BRADBURY

“R-r-i-ed hot! R-r-r-ed hot! Get your franks
now! Your only chance on Mars — "

AM PARKHILL motioned with the
broom in his big hands and gazed off
at the blue Martian hills.

“Here we are,’’ he said. “Yes, sir, look
at that!” He pointed. "Look at that sign:
‘sam's hot dogs!’ Ain’t that beautiful, Anna,
I mean now, ain’t it?”

“Sure, Sam,” said his wife.

“Can you honestly say I’m not smart, I
mean honest?” he asked. “My initial invest-

ment — peanuts. My overhead — beans. We’U
swim in gravy, Anna, gravy!”

His wife looked at him for a long time,
not speaking.

This was a crossroads where two dead
metal highways came and went in darkness
from one deserted city to another. Here Sam
had flung up this new riveted aluminum
structure, garish with blazing light, trem-
bling with juke-box melody.

99

100

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

He walked around and around, blinking
at it, hands on hips, smiling. He stooped to
fix a border of broken glass he had placed
on the footpath. He had broken this glass
from some old windows of buildings in the
dead Martian towns for this purpose. He
laughed all the time.

“The best hot dogs on two worlds! The
first man on Mars with a hot dog stand ! My
dream ! The best onions and chili and
mustard ! Can’t say I'm not alert. Here’s
the main highways, over there is the dead
city and the mineral deposits. Those trucks
from the new Earth settlement will have to
pass here twenty-four hours a day ! Do I
know my locations, or don’t I ?”

His wife looked at her fingernails.

“You think those ten thousand work
rockets will come through to Mars?” she
said at last.

“In a month,” he said loudly. “Why you
look so funny?”

"I don’t trust those Earth people,” she
said. “I’ll believe it when I see them ten
thousand rockets arrive with our one hun-
dred thousand workers and scientists and
all.”

“Customers.” He lingered on the word.
“One hundred thousand hungry people.”

“If,” said his wife, slowly, watching the
sky, “there’s no atomic war. I don’t trust
no atom bombs. There’s so many of them
on Earth now, you never can tell.”

“Ah,” said Sam, and went on sweeping.

A wind whispered across the counters.
Somebody floated gently on the air.

A mask.

“So you’re back again !” cried Sam, hold-
ing onto his broom.

T HE mask, cut from pale blue glass,
floated in the wind. Under it were blow-
ing robes of thin yellow silk. From the silk
two mesh-silver hands were outstretched.
The mouth of the mask was a curved slot
from which a faint musical sound issued
now as the robes, the mask, the hands in-
creased to a height, decreased.

“Mr. Parkhill, I return to speak with you
further,” the voice said from behind the
mask.

"Every day, every day, dang it!” cried
Sam. “Clear out, I don’t want you here!
You wait until I’m all built and then come
and claim this is your land!”

“I come for a different reason ♦Us time,”
said the blue mask.

"Look here!” said Sam. “I’m Sam
Parkhill, I’m from New York City, and
where I come from there’s two billion others
just like me. And you Martians, you’re just
a couple dozen left, all the rest of you dead.
You got no cities, you just wander around in
the ruins, you got no leaders, no laws, and
now you come tell me that this is your land I
Well, you’re ten thousand years late! The
old got to give way to the new. That’s the
law of change — give and take ! There’s only
a thousand us Earthmen on Mars tonight,
but that’s ten times as many as you guys, so
just float away and let me be!”

“We Martians are telephathic,” said the
cold blue mask. "We are in constant in-
visible contact with Earth and tonight we
have news to bring you concerning Earth.”
A silver hand gestured. A bronze tube
in it.

le show you this.”

"A gun !” cried Sam Parkhill.

An instant later he had yanked his own
gun from his hip holster and fired into the
mist, the robe, the blue mask.

The mask sustained itself a moment. Then,
like a small circus tent pulling up its stakes
and dropping soft fold on fold, the silks
rustled, the mask descended, the silver claws
tinkled on the stone path. The mask lay on
a small huddle of silent white bones and
material.

Sam stood gasping.

His wife swayed over the huddled pile.
“That’s no weapon," she said, bending
down. She picked up the bronze tube. "He
was going to show you a message. It’s all
written out in snake-script, all the blue
snakes. I can’t read it. Can you ?”

"No, that Martian picture writing, it
wasn’t anything. Let it go !” Sam glanced
hastily around. "There may be others !
We’ve got to get him out of sight. Get the
shovel !”

“What’re you going to do?”

“Bury him, of course!”

"You shouldn’t have shot him.”

“It was a mistake. Quick!”

Silently, she fetched him the shovel.

At eight o’clock he was back sweeping the
front of the hot dog stand self-consciously.
His wife stood, arms folded, in the bright
doorway.

“I’m sorry what happened,” he said. He
looked at her, then away. “You know ft was
purely the circumstances of Fate.”

“Yes,” said Us wife.

appeared
“Let n

101

THE OFF

“I hated Eke heck to see hkn take out that

weapon."

"What weapon?”

“Well, I thought it was one! I’m sorry,
I’m sorry ! How many times do I say kf”

“Ssh,” said Anna, putting one finger to
her lips. “Ssh.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “I got the whole
Rocket Corporation back of me!" He
snorted. “These Martians won’t dare do
anything, if they know what’s good for
them !”

“Look,” said Anna.

He looked out onto the dead sea bottom.
He dropped his broom. He picked it up and
his mouth was open, a little free drop of
saliva flew on the air, and he was suddenly
shivering.

“Anna, Anna, Anna!” he said.

“Here they come,” said Anna.

Across the dead sea bottom a number of
tall blue-sailed Martian sand-ships floated,
like blue ghosts, like blue smoke.

“Anna!” Sam ran first one direction, then
another, and stopped. “Come on, let’s get
out of here!”

“Why?” she asked, slowly, fascinated
with the Martian vessels.

“They’ll kill me! Get in our sand-ship,
quick !”

Anna didn’t move.

S AM had to drag her around back of the
stand, in a dull lump, to where their
sand-ship stood waiting. He thrust her in,
jumped in behind her and flapped the tiller,
let the sail op to tala the evening wind.

The stars were bright and the blue
Martian ships were skimming across the
whispering sands. His blood pumped,
making him sick. At first the ship would not
go, then he remembered the sand-anchor
and cast off.

“There!”

The wind hurled the sand-ship keening
over the dead sea bottom, over long buried
crystals, past upended pillars, past deserted
docks of marble and brass, past dead white
chess cities, past purple foothills, into dis-
tance. The figures of the Martian ships re-
ceded, and (hen began to pace Sam’s ship.

“Guess I showed them, by glory!” cried
Sam. “Fll report to the Rocket Corporation.
They’ll .give me protection! I’m pretty
quick. ”

“They could have stopped you if they
wanted," Anna said tiredly. “They just

SEASON

didn’t bother.”

He laughed. “Come off it. Why should
they let me get off? No, they weren’t quick
enough, is all.”

“Weren’t they?” Anna nodded behind
him.

He did not turn. He felt a cold wind blow-
ing. He was afraid to turn. He felt some-
one in the seat behind him, something as
frail as your breath on a cold morning, some-
tiling as blue as hickory wood smoke at twi-
light, something like old white lace, some-
thing like a snowfall, something like the
icy rime of winter on the brittle sedge.

There was a sound as of a thin plate of
glass broken — laughter. Then silence. He
turned.

The young woman sat the tiller bench
quietly. Her wrists were thin as icicles, her
eyes as dear as the moons and as large,
steady and white. The wind blew at her and,
like an image on cold water, she rippled, silk
standing out from her frail body in tatters
of blue rain.

“Go back,” she said.

“No.” Sam was quivering, the fine deli-
cate fear-quivering of a hornet suspended in
the air, undecided between fear and hate.
“Get off my ship!”

“This isn’t your ship,” said the vision.
“It’s old as our world. It sailed the sand
seas ten thousand years ago when the seas
were whispered away and the docks were
empty, and you came and took it, stole it.
Now, turn it around, go back to the cross-
roads place. We have need to talk with you.
Something important has happened.”

“Get off my ship!” said Sam. He took a
gun from his holster with a creak of leather.
He pointed it carefully. “Jump off before I
count three or — ”

“Don’t!” cried the girl. “I won’t hurt
you. Neither will the others. We came in
peace !”

“One,” said Sam.

“Sam!” said Anna.

“Listen to me,” said the girl.

“Two,” said Sam, firmly, cocking the gun
trigger.

“Sam !” cried Anna.

“Three,” said Sam.

“We only — ” said the girL

The gun went off.

In the sunlight, snow melts, crystals
evaporate into a steam, into nothing. In the
firelight vapors dance and vanish. In the
core of a volcano, fragile things burst and

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

102

disappear. The girl, in the gunfire, in the
heat, in the concussion, folded like a soft
scarf, melted like a crystal figurine. What
was left of her, ice, snow-flake, smoke, blew
away in the wind. The tiller seat was
empty.

Sam holstered his gun and did not look
at his wife. •

“Sam,” she said, after a minute more of
traveling, whispering over the moon-colored
sea of sand, "stop the ship.”

"Why?”

“I want to get out,” she said. “I don’t
want to be anywhere near you any more.
Stop the ship.”

He looked at her and his face boned
tight. "No, you don’t. Not after all this
time, no you don’t. You’re not pulling out
on me. You’re going right with me all the
way.”

She looked at his hand on his gun. "I
believe you would,” she said, her eyes fixed
on the gun. "I believe you actually would.”

He jerked his head from side to side, eyes
closed, hand tight on the tiller.

“Anna, Anna, this is crazy. I wouldn’t
hurt you. We’ll be in the town in a few
minutes, then we’ll be okay!”

“Yes,” said his wife, lying back cold in
the ship.

“Anna, listen to me.’

“There’s nothing to hear, Sam,” she said.
“But the wind.”

“Anna !”

T HEY were passing a little white chess
city, and in his frustration, in his rage,
he pulled out his gun and sent six bullets
crashing among the crystal pillars of the
city. The city dissolved in a shower of
ancient glass and splintered quartz. It fell
away like carved soap, shattered. It was no
more. He laughed and fired again and
one last tower, one last chess piece, took
fire, ignited, and in blue Hinders, went up to
the stars.

“I’ll show them!” he cried. “I’ll show
everybody. ”

“Go ahead, show us, Sam,” murmured
his wife, lost in shadow.

“Here comes another city!” shouted
Sam, reloading his gun. “Watch me fix
it!”

The blue phantom ships came out of the
distance behind and drew steadily apace.
He did not see them at first. He was only
aware of a whistling and a high windy

screaming, as 'of steel on sand, and it was
the sound of the sharp razor prows of the
sand-ships preening the sea bottoms, their
red pennants, blue pennants unfurled. In
the blue light ships were blue dark images,
masked men, men with silvery faces, men
with blue stars for eyes, men with carved
golden ears, men with tinfoil cheeks and
ruby-studded lips, men with arms folded,
men following him, Martian men.

One, two, three. Sam counted. The
Martian ships closed in.

"Anna, Anna, I can’t hold them all off !”

Anna did not speak or rise from where
she had slumped.

Sam fired his gun, eight times. One of
the sand ships fell apart, the sail, the
emerald body, the bronze hull points, the
moon-white tiller, and all the separate
images in it. The masked men, all of them,
dug into the sand and separated out into
orange and then smoke-flame.

But the other ships closed in.

“I’m outnumbered, Anna!” he cried.
"They’ll kill me!”

He threw out the anchor. It was no
use. The sail fluttered down, folding unto
itself, sighing. The ship stopped. The wind
stopped. Travel stopped. Mars stood still
as the majestic vessels of the Martian drew
around and hesitated over him.

“Earth man,” a voice called from a high
seat somewhere. A silverine mask moved.
Ruby-rimmed lips glittered with the words.

“I didn’t do anything!” Sam looked at
all the faces, one hundred in all, that sur-
rounded him. There weren’t many Mar-
tians left on Mars — one hundred, one hun-
dred and fifty, all told. And most of them
were here now, on the dead seas, in their
resurrected ships, by their dead chess
cities, one of which had just fallen like
some fragile vase hit by a pebble. The
silverine masks glinted.

"It was all a mistake,” he pleaded, stand-
ing out of his ship, his wife slumped behind
him in the deeps of the hold, like a dead
woman. “I came to Mars like any honest
enterprising businessman. I took some sur-
plus material from a rocket that crashed and
I built me the finest little stand you ever saw
right there on that land by the crossroads —
you know where it is. You’ve got to admit
it’s a good job of building.” Sam laughed,
staring around. "And that Martian— I
know he was a friend erf yours — came. His
death was an accident. I assure you. All I

103

THE OFF SEASON

wanted to do was have a hot dog stand, the
only one on Mars, the first and most im-
portant one. You understand how it is?

I was going to serve the best darned hot
dogs there, with chili, and onions and
orange juice.”

The silver masks did not move. They
burned in the moonlight. Yellow eyes shone
upon Sam. He felt his stomach clench in,
wither, become a rock. He threw his gun
in the sand.

“I give up.”

‘Tick up your gun,” said the Martians,
in chorus.

“What?”

‘'Your gun.” A jeweled hand waved
from the prow of a blue ship. “Pick it up.
Put it away.”

Unbelieving, he picked up the gun.

“Now.” said the voice, “turn your ship
and go back to your stand.”

“Now ?"

“Now,” said the voice. “We will not
harm you. You ran away before we were
able to explain. Come.”

N OW the great ships turned as lightly
as moon thistles. Their wing-sails
flapped with a sound of soft applause on the
air. The masks were coruscating, turning,
firing the shadows.

“Anna!” Sam tumbled into the ship.
“Get up, Anna. We're going back.” He was
excited. He almost gibbered with relief.
“They aren't going to hurt me, kill me,
Anna, (ret up, honey, get up.”

"Wiiat — what?” Anna blinked around
and slowly, as the ship was sent into the
wind again, she helped herself as in a dream,
bark up to a seat and slumped there, like a
sack of stones, saying no more.

The sand slid under the ship. In half an
hour thev were back at the crossroads, the
ships planted, all of them out of the ships.

The ! .eader stood before Sam and Anna,
his mask beaten of polished bronze, the eyes
only empty slits of endless blue-black, the
mouth a slot out of which words drifted into
the wind.

“Ready your stand,” said the voice. A
diamond-gloved hand waved. “Prepare the
viands, prepare the foods, prepare the
strange wines, for tonight is indeed a great
night !”

“You mean,” said Sam, “you’ll let me
stay on here?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

The mask was rigid and carved and cold
and sightless.

“Prepare your place of food,” said the
voice softly. “And take this.”

“What is it?”

Sam blinked at the silver foil scroll that
was handed him, upon which, in heirogylph,
snake figures danced.

“It is the land grant to all of the territory
from the silver mountains to the blue hills,
from the dead salt sea there, to the distant
valleys of. moonstone and emerald,” said the
Leader.

“M-mine?” bleated Sam, incredulous.
“Yours.”

“One hundred thousand miles of terri-
tory?”

“Yours.”

“Did you hear that, Anna?”

Anna was sitting on the ground, leaning
against the aluminum hot dog stand, eyes
shut.

“But why, why — why are you giving me
all this?” asked Sam, trying to look into the
metal slots of the eyes.

“That is not all. Here.” Six other scrolls
were produced. The names were declared,
the territories announced.

“Why, that’s half of Mars! I own half
of Mars!” Sam rattled the scrolls in his
fists. He shook them at Anna, insane with
laughing. “Anna, did you hear?”

“I heard,” said Anna, looking at the sky.
She seemed to be watching for something.
She was getting a little more alert now.

“Thank you. oh thank you,” said Sam,
to the bronze mask.

"Tonight is the night,” said the mask.
“You must be ready.”

“I will be. What is it — a surprise? Are
the rockets coming through earlier than we
thought, a month earlier from Earth ? All
ten thousand rockets, bringing the settlers,
the miners, the workers and their wives, all
hundred thousand of them? Won't that be
swell, Anna? You see, I told you. I told
you, that town there won't always have just
one thousand people in it. There’ll be fifty
thousand more coming, and the month after
that a hundred thousand more and by the
end of the year five million Earth men. And
me with the only hot dog stand staked out
on the busiest highway to the mines !”

The mask floated on the wind. “We leave
you. Prepare. The land is yours.”

In the blowing moonlight, like metal

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

104

petals of some ancient flower, like blue
plumes, like cobalt butterflies immense and
quiet, the old ships turned and moved over
the shifting sands, the masks beaming and
glittering, until the last shine, the last blue
color, was lost among the hills.

“Anna, why did they do it? Why didn’t
they kill me? Don’t they know anything?
What’s wrong with them ? Anna, do you
understand?” He shook her shoulder. “I
own half of Mars!”

She watched the night sky, waiting.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to get
the place fixed. All the hot dogs boiling, the
buns warm, the chili cooking, the onions
peeled and diced, the relish laid out, the
napkins in the clips, the place spotless !
Hey!” He did a little wild dance, kicking
his heels. “Oh, boy, I’m happy, yes, sir I’m
happy,” he sang, off-key. “This is my lucky
day!”

H E BOILED the hot dogs, cut the buns,
sliced the onions in a frenzy.

“Just think, that Martian said, a surprise.
That can only mean one thing, Anna. Those
hundred thousand people coming in ahead
of schedule, tonight, of all nights ! We’ll be
flooded! We’ll work long hours for clays,
what with tourists riding around seeing
things, Anna. Think of the money!”

He went out and looked at the sky. He
didn’t see anything.

“In a minute maybe,” he said, snuffing
the cool air gratefully, arms up, beating his
chest. “Ah!”

Anna said nothing. She peeled potatoes
for French fries quietly, her eyes always on
the sky.

“Sam,” she said, half an hour later.
“There it is. Look.”

He looked and saw it.

Earth.

It rose full and green, like a fine-cut stone,
above the hills.

“Good old Earth,” he whispered, loving-
ly. “Good old wonderful Earth. Send me your
hungry and your starved. Something, some-
thing — how does that poem go? Send me
your hungry, old Earth. Here’s Sam Park-
hill, his hot dogs all boiled, his chili cooking,
everything neat as a pin. Come on, you
Earth, send me your rockets!”

He went out to look at his place. There it
sat, perfect as a fresh-laid egg on the dead
sea bottom, the only nucleus of light and
warmth in hundreds of miles of lonely waste-
land. It was like a heart beating alone in a
great dark body. He felt almost sorrowful
with pride gazing at it with wet eyes.

“It sure makes you humble,” he said,
among the cooking odors of wieners, warm
buns, rich butter. “Step up,” he invited the
various stars in the sky. “We’ll be the first
to buy?”

"Sam, ” said Anna.

Earth changed in the black sky.

It blew up.

It came apart in ten billion sections, as if
a gigantic jigsaw had exploded. It burned
with an unholy dripping glare, like a torch
in a wet banquet hall at midnight.

“What was that?” Sam looked at the
green flame in the sky.

“Earth,” said Anna, holding her hands
together.

“That can’t be Earth, that’s not Earth !
No, that ain’t Earth ! It can’t be !”

“You mean it couldn’t be Earth,” said
Anna, looking at him. “That just isn’t
Earth, no that’s not earth, is that what you
mean ?”

“Not Earth — oh no, it couldn’t be,” he
wailed.

He stood there, his hands at his sides, his
mouth open, his eyes wide and staring, not
moving.

“Sam.” She called his name. For the first
time in days her eyes were on fire. “Sam,”
she called.

He looked up at the sky.

“Well,” she said. She looked around for
a minute or so, in silence. Then, briskly, she
flapped a wet towel over her arm. “Switch
on more lights, turn up the music, open the
doors. There’ll be another batch of customers
along in about a million years. Gotta be
ready, yes, sir.”

Sam did not move.

“What a swell spot for a hot dog stand,”
she said. She reached over and picked a
toothpick out of a jar and put it between her
front teeth. “Let you in on a little secret,
Sam,” she whispered, leaning toward him.
“This looks like it’s going to be an off-
season.”

AGAINST THE FALL OF NIGHT, a *Novel of the Future by ARTHUR C.
CLARKE, in the November STARTLING STORIES —

Now on Sale, 25c at All Stands!

Boon or Blight— What Won Id be the Future

the adolescent growing pains of many failures
and few true advances, the finished product
is an inefficient, ill-appearing semi-mediocre
forerunner of the final thing. The first work-
ing model may also make its first success at
some odd hour in the morning after a job
of work that culminates forty or fifty solid
hours — after a few years of preliminary
planning and building.

condition, then snapped the final switch with
his left h^nd as he stared intently at a pol-
ished plate of mirror-perfect silver about
three inches in diameter.

The plate was ringed by equipment of one
sort or another, but Kingsley was interested
only in the plate. Not the mirror image of
his own face behind the plate, but in the sur-
face of the plate itself.

And so Joseph Kingsley yawned as he
stepped back. He was waiting for the tubes
to come up to working temperature. For
the past twelve hours it had been just an-
other half-hour, perhaps, and then a final
bit of frustration before the trial. Kingsley
refused to give up and go to bed, because
success was so close.

Ilis reward was near, now. He watched
the meters indolently, smoked a cigarette
until everything came to stable operating

Id the dimness, BUtr could see Sally

Subtly it changed from a solid shining sur-
face to a translucent film, and then it faded
into a partially transparent darkness. Kings-
ley took a deep breath and realized that he
had been holding his breath for a full minute.
He shook his head quizzically and poked a
pencil forward.

T HE culmination of months of work de-
pended upon this moment. According to
all of the laws of modem physics, the pencil

of the Scientific Marvel of Teleportation?

should have come against the silver plate side — there was no light. Or not much, any-
regardless of its change in color. It was not way, compared to the high level of light in
supposed to stop, yet Kingsley really did not his laboratory.

believe that the pencil would do anything Joseph Kingsley withdrew the pencil and
else even though he had designed the gear inspected it. It had not changed,
after making the preliminary discoveries. It He looked through the plate. It reminded
was so utterly fantastic that he himself did Joe of peering through a three-inch porthole
not really believe it. from a brightly lighted room into a dimly

Gingerly he pushed the pencil forward and lighted space, or perhaps looking out of his

fnatd by a cirtto of light

then he knew that the point of the pencil was room onto the street through a three-inch

beyond the surface of the silver plate. The hole in the wall. A street darkened by night,

plate was invisible, now, but in the three- He could see nothing because the light in the

inch expanse, Kingsley could estimate the room was too bright.

virtual surface reasonably close. He shoved He shoved a forefinger into the circle with
the pencil in deep; stopping only when his a cautious gesture. It might hurt; it might

fingers were close to the invisible surface. be dangerous. Kingsley did not know. Yet

He looked at the pencil. It seemed normal he felt nothing,
enough. It was illuminated by the light in So far it was a success,
his room passing through the three-inch cir- So far — and yet so futile . It was, he
de made by the silver plate. On the — other thought, like having a brand new telephone

107

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

108

on a world where there were no other sub-
scribers. He could reach out for the world
but the world could not answer. Yet, if his
theory were correct, both pencil and fore-
finger must have been reaching and pointing
for — something, somewhere !

Joe Kingsley cranked three of the dials on
the front of a panel near by. The hole
changed color once during the spinning of
the dials, but Joe was unable to relocate the
setting. At a later date he would have cali-
brated them, but now they were standard
dials that read from zero to one hundred
and were meaningless in any terms but the
percentage of half-rotation of the dial itself.
Even an intrinsic zero for the equipment did
not coincide with zero on the dials, because
true zero required an electrical balance and
not merely zero input.

According to theory, there must be some-
where a three-inch circle that looked out of
a darkened spot into his laboratory.

Kingsley wanted that other circle to enter
his own lab so that he could experiment with
both ends.

It was a solid half-hour later before Kings-
ley saw the circle lighlen once more and he
fiddled with the dials carefully, balancing
them as close to the theoretical zero as he
could. The circle lightened in swoops and
darkened suddenly as he fiddled, and he saw,
in those swift changed, brief flashes of the
laboratory, as if seen through the eye of a
motion picture camera swinging madly on a
boom and making wild random zoom shots.

He finally got the thing stable, then spent
another half-hour fixing the circuit with fine-
tuning verniers so that he could control the
position of the circle. Before, a hair-breadth
on the dial sent the far circle swooping be-
yond calculation.

The Kingsley looked through his circle at
a bench on the far side of the room, where
a screwdriver lay. Taking his tongue be-
tween his teeth, Joe reached into the three-
inch circle before him, reached down on the
bench he saw through the circle, and picked
up the screwdriver.

Across the room, his hand appeared in
space above the table and grasped the screw-
driver. To a hypothetical observer from that
vantage, it would seem as though a three-
inch circle appeared in space, behind which
stood Joe Kingsley and a pile of equipment.
It was the opposite of Kingsley’s view.
Where Kingsley was looking through a
three-inch hole in a wall at the outside or at

the bench, the bench was oppositely looking
through the same hole in the same mystical
wall at Kingsley and his equipment.

K INGSLEY drew the screwdriver back
through and looked at it. It seemed
quite normal.

Then the enormity of the thing struck
Kingsley, and he sat down quickly. It was
too much. He had just succeeded in making
a teleport, surpassing the dreams of many
writers of science fiction. This was not story
for the imagination, this was fact, and it was
so fantastic a fact that Joe Kingsley had to
rest both his mind and his body before he
could continue.

He reached for a cigarette, and grunted
when he found his pack empty.

It was now about four o’clock in the morn-
ing and every place he knew of closed. He
wanted a smoke desperately, which desire
was heightened because he had none.

Kingsley looked at the gear speculatively,
and from the gear to the screwdriver he held
in his hand.

If Kingsley could steer this thing, he could
get cigarettes.

He turned the dials carefully, but saw the
circle swoop away far too rapidly. It passed
bright patches and dark spots with a kaleido-
scopic rapidity and poised — somewhere —
while Kingsley peered through it hopefully.

Not too far away were a few lonely lights
that strove in sheer futility to cast illumina-
tion on a dark and sleeing countryside.
Town, without a doubt, from a distance.

Again Kingsley turned the dials carefully,
and the circle approached the town at an odd
angle. It poised in the middle of an inter-
section illuminated poorly by the single light
high on a pole at one corner. But on the
corners of the intersection that Kingsley
could see — two were behind him through the
port — were a filling station, a drug store.
Both stores were unmistakably familiar and
required no more identification.

Kingsley turned the dial-vernier and the
circle swooped forward and entered the drug
store. Near the door Kingsley located the
cigar counter, and because it was dark in the
store — the only illumination cast on the scene
came from the light in Kingsley’s laboratory
— Kingsley merely reached for the first pack
of cigarettes he saw.

Then because Kingsley was an honest
man, he fished in his pocket and dropped a
quarter in the cash drawer. The ring of the

THE MOBIUS TRAIL

cash register bell was loud in Kingsley’s
laboratory — and also in the drug store.

Kingsley retreated rapidly, turning off his
gear after he drew the cigarettes back into
his own bailiwick. He lit one idly, paying no
attention to the pack other than to strip the
paper from it with a letter opener. The paper
went into the wastebasket and the cigarettes
went into his cigarette case.

Then Kingsley relaxed and smoked, plan-
ning his next move.

This was not hard to do. The first thing
was to make a teleport with a four-foot cir-
cle so that something larger than a hand
could enter it. No, the first thing was to hit
the hay and get some sleep. Then would
come the time to rebuild and refine.

He sighed at the equipment. It might take
another couple of weeks before he could
again do this. The new equipment would
require cannibalization of the present gear.
The salary and the appropriation of a college
professor in theoretical and practical physics
does not permit grand expenditures for fancy
and special equipment.

First sleep. Next rebuilding. Then an-
nouncement of his success. And then to reap
the profits from a machine that would make
him a fortune and bring him undying fame.

Joe Kingsley was wrong. His first move
should have been to inspect the package of
cigarettes, instead of letting his practised
fingers open them without his eyes seeing
them.

That might have saved him a lot of
trouble.

CHAPTER II
W heels- fV ithin- W heels

W ALTER MURDOCH of the Treas-
ury Department entered his su-
perior’s office with a smile. His boss handed
Walter a cigar.

“Sit down. Walt,” he said. “We’ve a
case for you.”

Walt nodded affably. Tony Monroe did
not call his operatives into the office for any
other reason.

Monroe handed Murdoch a quarter and
asked, “What do you think of that?”
Murdoch placed his cigar on the ash-try
and looked at the quarter. Then he gulped,

169

looked at it again, and exploded into lurid
profanity.

Tony Monroe nodded. “That’s what we
all said. What do you make of it?”

“It’s a perfect mirror image!”

“Precisely. And though you’ve had only
a chance to inspect it visually, we’ve made
comparison photos. The thing is a perfect
mirror image.”

“It is?” asked Murdoch incredulously.

“Blown up a thousand times in the com-
parison projector, a photograph of this
phony and a real quarter from the same mint
register perfectly — so long as this one’s lan-
tern slide is put in the projector reversed.”

Murdoch looked at the reversed quarter.
“Now why in the name of sin would any-
body make a reversed die of a coin?”

Tony Monroe shook his head. “I could
see some amateur counterfeiter making a
reverse image with a bit of his own-built
gear. Some guy who hadn’t thought too
much about the process — a rank, ignorant
amateur. Eut this thing is mechanically per-
fect. It would take a master die cutter to
make a coining die of that perfection, and
any master die cutter would know how to
make it come out properly. Furthermore,
the department metallurgists tell me that a
sliver from that phony is precisely correct
coin metal. ’

Murdoch whistled. “So we have a quar-
ter made of perfect coin metal, from a die
mechanically perfect, but mirror-reversed.
What about the guy who took this?”

“A small store in Holland, Illinois. The
storekeeper, a Timothy Lockland, knows
nothing about it. Doesn’t know where he got
it.”

“Believe him?”

“I do. He called the bank as soon as he
found it.”

“Fingerprints ?”

“A smudge. The storekeeper’s ; two bank-
teller’s ; arid one other. We’re running
through the card files now. At any rate,
Walter, you’re it. Track this thing down
and clean it up. Heaven alone knows who’s
tinkering with coins this way, but well have
to find out.”

Murdock took the coin close to his eyes
again. He shook his head unhappily.

“This is a first class mystery,” he said. “I
doubt that counterfeiting has much to do
with this case.”

“Nor do I. But even so, they’re monkey-
ing with U.S. coinage, and we’ve got to stop

110 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

them. It’s a fine thing, I’d say. But — ”

The buzzer on Tony Monroe’s desk called
his attention and he snapped the switch, to
hear, “Mr. Monroe, the files are ready for
you.”

“Bring ’em in, Trudy,” he replied.

A girl brought a sheaf of papers in to
Monroe’s desk. Monroe handed them to
Murdoch, who riffled through them quickly.
There were not many — a statement made by
the storekeeper, and statements by the bank
tellers. A photo of the quarter taken through
the comparison projector showing the per-
fect registry of real and phony quarters when
the latter was re-reversed. A fingerprint
photograph, showing the outlined areas of
several prints, each numbered and keyed to
various fingerprint records of the people in-
volved, including one with a question mark
scrawled on it. The latter was in a brief
folder by itself, and Murdoch opened the
folder.

“This guy’s in jail, Tony.”

“Yeah, I know,” grunted Monroe unhap-
pily. “I’ve just called the warden. Number
Three-forty-seven — eight-eighty-nine — forty
is still in his cell and has been there all along.
I told Warden Daniels not to do or say any-
thing other than to keep a quiet watch. We’ll
do our own investigating of this mad thing.
The papers are keeping it quiet, too.”

M URDOCH nodded and dropped the
quarter into his pocket.

“This is a start,” he said, tapping the file
folder. “But that print’s rather small.”
Monroe nodded. “A mere fragment. Not
enough to get a conviction, I’ll admit. Just
barely enough to get the general classifica-
tion. About all we can do is to see if there is
a connection between the ones that fall into
this classification and the real act.”

“There were others?”

“About eight. Five of them fall in the
general grouping, but their match is imper-
fect with the fragment. One was executed
for murder a month ago and was taken from
the files on active criminals, but the red tape
hadn’t caught up the general card file yet.
The other came from the general identifica-
tion files and was a blueprint clerk in a war
factory during the late unpleasantness. A
girl of twenty at the time, since married to
a lieutenant in the Navy and now raising
a brood of embryonic naval officers and
Waves while her husband is skippering a
sub chaser and stationed within a three-inch

rifle shot of their home. Somehow I can’t
connect her with this.”

“So it boils down to Norman Blair, alias
Norman Black, alias Ned Burrows. Age
thirty-two. Convicted of forgery, theft, and
tampering with the mail. Now serving twen-
ty years for attempted bank robbery. A
ruthless character unlikely to be or become a
trusty, and more likely to be carefully
watched at all times. How in the devil can a
jailed crook do some of the things they get
away with?”

“I’ll never tell you,” agreed Monroe. “But
there it is, Walt. Take off and see what you
can uncover. ...”

There was little he could get from the
jailbird. Norman Blair’s constantly repeated
answer was the same :

“I don’t know nothing, copper.”

“And you’ve never been in Holland, Illi-
nois ?”

“Never heard of it, copper.”

“I’m no copper. I’m a Treasury Agent.”
“A T-man, huh?” spat Norman Blair
roughly.

“If you call us that.”

"We calls you other things,” snorted
Blair.

“And you’ve never seen or heard of any-
thing like this quarter?”

“No dope’d make a phony quarter.”
“Why not?”

“Not profitable.”

“Thanks.”

"Thanks — for nothing,” snarled Blair
nastily. “Any fool would know that.” He
looked at the reversed coin again. “And any
fool wouldn’t make a reversed die.”

“Some might.”

“Nope.”

“Well,” snapped Murdock angrily, “some-
one did !”

“Maybe someone turned a real quarter
inside-out,” sneered Blair.

“Maybe they did.”

"A nice trick if you can do it,” jeered
Blair. “And what good is it?”

“I wouldn’t know. I just want to find out
who did it.”

“Then find ’em, copper. Someone else,
not me. I wouldn’t waste my time on quar-
ters, either.”

"All right. Just forget I was ever here.”
“More’n glad to, copper. You annoy me.”
Blair turned and left the office with a sour
expression. Murdoch shrugged as Blair left.
Then after a period of thought, he turned to

Warden Daniels.

"Have you any ideas, Warden?"

“Nope. Only that Blair is a tough guy
and we’ve had him under more than close
observation. He broke jail in Arizona once,
you know. We’d like to keep him here."

“And where does he go when he’s fin-
ished here?"

"In about eighteen years he can go back
to Arizona to finish out his stretch there.
That’ll keep him under the wraps for most
of the rest of his life. He’s been with us for
two years now."

“Well this looks like a dead end. I might
as well go to Holland and see what’s giving
at that end. That’s where this coin was
found, you know."

“I'll wish you luck, Mr. Murdoch."

F LIPPING the quarter, Murdoch caught
it deftly. It came down heads — reversed
— so that Washington looked to the right
“I’ll need it," he said unhopefully.

Murdoch left after that, and went to his
hotel to think about further plans. He was
not entirely satisfied with Blair’s explana-
tions, but he knew that there was nothing
he could do about it more than to ask
Warden Daniels to inspect any letters care-
fully.

Yet as Murdoch left the jail, Norman
Blair was writing a letter to a friend. This
letter was written in a normal vein. It con-
tained considerable discussion of the state of
affairs in the world, his own feelings at in-
carceration, and what he planned to do
eventually. The latter included appeals and
ideas for retrials, which were so much talk,
but typical of the man.

Concealed in the letter was a word-mean-
ing code impossible to break since the seem-
ingly uncouth usage of improper words con-
veyed whole phrases of meaning. It went
out by mail right through the censor's desk,
and was on its way before Treasury Agent
Murdoch got a train reservation making con-
111

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

112

nection with the small town of Holland, Illi-
nois. . . .

A week passed quietly, during which time
the trail cooled considerably. Murdoch ar-
rived in Holland and met the storekeeper
and came away convinced that the man knew
nothing of the mystery ; nor even how it had
happened. He stayed around a few days, but
his stay was completely sterile because this
was a completely cold trail with not the
slightest inkling to lead Murdoch toward a
new end.

The recipient of Blair’s coded letter ar-
rived a day or so after Murdoch came, and
because only the Treasury agent had official
sanction, there was even less to be learned.
Unknown to one another, both sat and pon-
dered by the hour ; wondering what possible
move could be made next.

In the meantime, Joe Kingsley had fin-
ished his pack of cigarettes without having
noted the lettering on any one of them. This
seems unlikely at first sight. Yet an inveter-
ate smoker will admit that he is not inclined
to read the label on his cigarette, especially
one who is busy with his hands most of the
time and who may smoke a full package of
cigarettes during the working day and an-
other at night.

In Kingsley’s case, the twenty smokes
were gone by midmorning, a good quantity
of them having been burned during Kings-
ley’s nighttime pondering. So the perpe-
trator of the outrage was himself completely
unconscious of his act, and had he been con-
fronted by the evidence itself, Kingsley
would have disavowed any knowledge of it.
And Kingsley’s argument would have the
validity of truth, for Kingsley had no idea
of the wheels-within-wheels that he had
started turning.

The quarter-in-reverse was not mentioned.
It was kept from all public notice by the
Treasury Department, and the recipient of
Blair’s letter did not dare broach the subject
openly to the storekeeper for fear the au-
thorities would get curious.

What Blair expected was not known.
Blair himself did not know. All Blair knew
was that something downright odd had taken
place and Blair was smart enough to realize
that something might be made of it if it could
be made to work. And nothing would be
lost if the strange affair led to nothing.

So with the veiling of the strange quar-
ter by the Treasury Department, that phase
of the thing died. Yet there was one other

item that was neither of interest to the
Treasury nor to Kingsley, for neither of
them knew about it. It was an item that
could reach the newspapers in due time.

And did.

CHAPTER III
Power of the Press

T HE STORY broke as a squib item on
Page Eight, sandwiched between a recipe
for a cake by a popular home economist and
the daily cross-word puzzle. Its few lines
were both terse and mysterious. It went:

FORTEAN SOCIETY PLEASE NOTE !
Gustave Stanisky today presented this newspaper
with its first package of Lemac cigarettes. Stan-
isky collects cigarette stamps for his son’s collec-
tion, and found the empty and torn wrapper in his
pile of waste paper.

Upon close inspection, the package of Lemac
cigarettes turned out to be a perfect mirror image
of the . wrapper from a pack of Camels.

The origin of this oddity is unknown, and
equally vague are the means of doing the job and
the reason why it was done. It is suggested that
the Fortean Society whose members collect such
rare oddities may be interested. Rumor has it that
a Lemac smoked backward tastes Hke a Camel.

This item caught the eye of Walter Mur-
doch during his dinner aboard the crack
train heading toward Washington. He
swore roundly because he had left too soon,
and because the thing had hit the papers and
was now public knowledge. It also height-
ened the mystery quite a bit, and gave it
some weight. A quarter reversed might be
an abortive attempt at counterfeiting, but
when other things began to turn up reversed
in the same inexplicable fashion, it began to
look as though more than mere “happen-
stance” was in the making.

Murdoch called for the conductor and had
the train flagged down at the next station.
There he fumed and fretted because a full
thirty-six hours must pass before he could
get back to Holland to look into this new
development.

The news item was also seen by the recipi-
ent of Blair’s letter, and that started a chain
of thought. A bit of research disclosed that
there were three members of the Forteans
in Holland, and further research proved that

THE MOBIUS TRAIL 113

one of them was an elderly lady who believed
firmly in the occult, and was therefore of lit-
tle use in any discussion of pure scientific
fact.

The second was an obscure young profes-
sor at Holland University of Science, and
might prove interesting. The third was an
adolescent of fifteen who was an avid collec-
tor of science fiction and fantasy stories.

And so Joe Kingsley opened his door to a
gentle knock and blinked as the girl smiled
and asked uncertainly :

“Doctor Kingsley?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Sally Ransome.”

“How do you do.”

Kingsley stood there foolishly, not know-
ing exactly what to do. He was not used to
this. The girl was about twenty-four and
constructed along very desirable lines all the
way from her high-arched feet to her chest-
nut hair. Her eyes held his naively ; nice
eyes, large and brown, and their hold almost
prevented Kingsley from seeing her gener-
ous mouth and finely molded nose.

“I’m a roving reporter from the National
Weekly," she said.

“I’ve read it occasionally. But what can
I do for you? Come in, Miss Ransome.”
“Thank you. I will. As to what you can
do for me, have you any ideas about that
reversed package of cigarettes?”

“What reversed package of cigarettes?”
Sally held forth the newspaper and
showed him. He took the paper and read
it through. He shook his head and shrugged.
“A prank, I fear.”

“That’s what most people will claim —
and forget about it. But there’s something
to it, I think.”

“I doubt it.”

“But you’re a member of the Forteans.
You aren’t supposed to doubt anything.”

H E LAUGHED, and shrugged again.

“I do belong to the Fortean Soci-
ety,” he admitted. “I joined several years
ago because I was interested in some of the
things Charles Fort claimed.”

“I’ve read some of them. But isn’t finding
a reverse-image wrapper almost as in-
triguing as a rain of frogs, or people disap-
pearing from sight without leaving any
trace?”

“There are two reasons why people might
join the Forteans,” he told her. “One of
them is the one I have — because I happen

to believe that everything has, somewhere, a
sound basis in fact. Some scientific fact.”
“How about the tales of people who have
disappeared, only to turn up some other
place in much less time than it is possible to
travel regardless of the means?”

“That’s happened,” he admitted. “Fur-
thermore, just because we do not know the
scientific fact that runs an occurrence on
one day or during one era is no sign that
the scientific truth might not come to light
at a later day. Charles Fort and others call
this phenomenon ‘teleportation’ and it has
been used by many writers. It is, of course,
completely unknown as they write about it.
Yet there might — ”

Kingsley paused. He realized that he was
treading on thin ground. He wanted no
mention of his invention until much later.
“Might be what?” she prompted.

“I have no ideas about your cigarette
package,” he said a bit abruptly. “It must be
false.”

“The men who know say ‘no’. They claim
it is printed on good, authentic paper with
the same kind of ink, and in perfect reverse-
register to an original.”

“I’d hate to go on record as claiming the
thing might have passed through some sort
of a space warp, or something like that,”
mused Kingsley. “The trouble with these
things is that they are entirely too scattered
and infrequent. I guarantee that a whole
rash of such stuff will come forth now that
it’s begun. There were the Flying Saucers
of a few years ago, you know, and the Loch
Ness sea monster seems to make its yearly
appearance just before vacation season.”
“I’m a bit disappointed,” she told him.
She stretched, and the gesture showed off
to perfection her lissome waist and rounded
arms. “I thought that a scientist who was
also a member of the Forteans might be able
to shed some light on the thing.”

“I’m sorry ”

“Then your membership in the Forteans
is not for any reason than to scoff.”

“Why, no,” he replied firmly. “I’m defi-
nitely interested.”

She smiled at him archly. “Yet you say
the same thing that Fort said. That every-
thing has an explanation but that we can’t
understand it.”

“That’s right.”

“But then you refuse to explain any-
thing. ”

“I don’t know everything.”

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

114

“How do you explain teleportation ?”

“Why harp on that subject?" asked
Kingsley uncomfortably.

“Because you know something about it,"
she told him directly.

Kingsley colored. “Not — ”

Sally’s laugh was apologetic. “I’m sorry,"
she said seriously when she finished showing
him that she knew the score. “I don’t mean
to pry. Perhaps it is a military secret?”

“I hadn’t thought of it in that — " Kings-
ley shut his mouth with a slight click. He
looked at her askance.

“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll make
a deal with you.”

“I’ll agree to most anything for a story,”
she said.

“The deal is this: You print nothing un-
til I’m ready to announce it, and then I’ll
see that you get first information.”

“That is a deal,” she said holding out a
hand. Her hand was firm, and the pressure
of it against his hand tingled a bit.

“Then I’ll show you my teleport.”

S ALLY RANSOME blinked. Her
mouth parted a bit, but she held her
tongue. She arose and followed Kingsley
to the laboratory.

“I’m just polishing off a few last-minute
ends,” he said. “I’ve been working on this
for a week now.”

“Looks like more time than that.”

“Oh, the first model took me a long time.
It was a small job. I’ve been making it big-
ger, and I’ve been using most of the old stuff
in the larger model. That way I’ve saved
time.”

“Good idea. But it looks a mess.”

“I suppose so.” He laughed as he picked
up his tools and went to work on the gear.
“When will this model be working?”
“Golly, Miss Ransome, I don’t expect it
to play until dark.”

Sally Ransome seated herself in Kingsley’s
easy chair and lit a cigarette.

“This I will wait to see,” she told him. . . .
At seven o’clock, Joe Kingsley stood up
and racked the soldering iron with an expan-
sive gesture.

“Finished?” she asked.

“Finished wiring,” he said. “There’s just
one question. You must be ravenous.”
“How do you feel?”

He shrugged. “I’m hungry, of course.”
“We could go out and eat,” she said. “But
what would you be doing if I weren’t here ?”

He grinned. “Well, I’ve got about two
hours worth of alignment and calibration
work to do before it ticks. I’d be inclined
to do that.”

“Then you go right ahead,” she told him.
“I can wait, and then we can take enough
time over our meal to taste it. Otherwise
it’s hot dogs and coffee gulped on the run so
we can get back. Right?”

“Right,” he said with a look of admiration.

He turned back to his equipment with a
smile and began the arduous job of adjust-
ing the gear. His two hours were a good
estimate, and at nine o’clock he arose from
the back of the equipment and announced
that it was about to make history. He
pointed to the four foot disc above the table.

“Watch!” he said.

The silvery disc grew dully translucent as
Joe Kingsley advanced the power. Then it
went into transparency and Sally gasped as
the solid silver plate became glass-clear.

The teleport looked from the laboratory
into another room in the building, and he
turned a dial which caused the plane of view
to retreat until it passed through the wall
into their own room.

“I had a bit of trouble on my first try,”
he told her ruminatively. “I drilled a th-ee-
inch hole in the wall over there.”

“How did you do that?” she asked, lean-
ing forward interestedly.

“By running the thing forward for trans-
fer while the power was full on, instead of
merely watching. Now I merely use it to
look through until I see where I want to go.
Then I turn on the final dollop of power and
the thing is not only transparent, but non-
existent.”

“But how does it work?” asked the in-
credulous girl.

“Space is curved,” he said. “Curved in
the fourth dimension. Inasmuch as this thing
looks anywhere we want it to, it must cross
space directly. Actually, it works because
of a bit of rather involved field theory. In
simple terms — which because they’re simpli-
fied are subject to argument for abso-
lute fact — it is a situation where time and
space are factors normal to this particular
universe or environment. However, neither
time nor space have the same meaning when
you traverse a space or a universe that has
no connection to this one. So the teleport
connects two locations in this space with no
apparent distance between them.”

“But why?”

THE MOBIUS TRAIL

K INGSLEY picked up a bit of paper,
and put two dots on it about three
inches apart. Then he folded the paper so
that the dots touched one another.

“See? The two-dimensional paper is
curved in the third dimension so that the two
dots are touching through one dimension
but three inches apart in the other.”

“But you can’t tell me that this room full
of equipment is powerful enough to cause
any warpage of space you feel inclined to
bend?”

He shook his head. “No, even the mass
of the sun warps space only a minute bit.
But the case is that we cannot really get any
mental picture of a curved space. It may
be curved in many ways, and might even
have a multiplicity of curves. Since it curves
in the fourth dimension, there is always some
curve that will cause any two spots to be
adjacent, and these curves are constantly
variable so that you move smoothly from one
to the other as you change the power.”

“I’m still dull,” she said, and smiled.
"That’s hunger,” he said. “And while
I’m demonstrating, I’ll make another at-
tempt.”

He twiddled the dials until the scene went
down into a lower floor. He approached the
stove first, then switched in the extra power.
Then, standing before the circle, he reached
through and took the coffee pot from the
stove.

He turned the scene to a cupboard where
he got coffee from a flower-printed cannister.
He filled the coffee pot, placed it on the
stove, and lit the gas. He turned the scene
to the refrigerator and took a paper-wrapped
package.

“Hamburger,” he said.

CHAPTER IV
Mobius Space

J OE KINGSLEY set the meat in the
pan, then went back to the cupboard.
From this he took plates, knives, forks, cups
and saucers. He handed them back over
his shoulder with a flourish, and Sally
Ransome set a corner of the laboratory table.

Then, watching the frying hamburger,
Kingsley continued to explain.

“You’ve seen the normal curve of a func-

115

tion — a curved line running across a piece
of cross-ruled paper?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever seen a three-dimensional
graph?”

“No.”

“It’s called a functional surface. It has
places that show the function of two varia-
bles. You can vary either of them, and the
position of the intersection shows the func-
tion. You can vary one of them in a minute
increment and the function may move only
slightly. It’s like drawing a series of lines
on a curved surface, like — like a contour
map.” He gave her a pleased glance. His
fumbling had found the proper simile and he
was happy.

"So,” he continued, “the tide can come
in a thousandth of an inch, and the contour
will change minutely. So in a four dimen-
sional graph, you change the function slightly
and the space-curve changes slightly — not
abruptly but smoothly — and you have an-
other location. Follow ?”

“I follow, but I’m a long way behind. All
I know is that it seems to work. How’s the
hamburger?”

“Done,” he said.

He handed the food over and took the
coffee pot from the stove. He poured.

“Not the Biltmore,” he said. “And even
so, it’s just the thing you didn’t want a cou-
ple of hours ago.”

"Here it’s fine,” she said. "We can still
talk. I like it. Two, Joe.”

Kingsley’s spirits lifted again. He dropped
two lumps of sugar in Sally’s coffee and
settled back in his chair. .Sally tasted the
coffee.

“I think I’ll need another lump,” she said
apologetically.

Joe laughed and dropped another lump in
her cup. "Come from a long line of chem-
ists ?”

“Why?” she asked, stirring vigorously.

“All chemists seem to take about nine
spoons of sugar per cup,” he told her.

“Why?”

“No one knows, not even chemists. But
it’s apparently a habit.”

Sally tasted and then shrugged her shape-
ly shoulders. “Just call me chemist,” she
said. She held up the cup for another lump.

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “I’d nor-
mally say that four lumps would make this
taste like syrup.”

“It should,” he told her. "Mind?”

IK THRILLING WONDER STORIES

“Not at an.”

He tasted gingerly. He shook his head.
“What kind of sugar is that?” she asked.
“Standard dextrose.”

"I didn’t ask the chemical name for it.
Who made it?”

“Same people who have been making it
for years. Standard brand.”

“It’s been cut,” she said.

“Well, use more and we’ll discount it.”
Sally dropped in more lumps and stirred
again.

“Dextrose/’ she said glumly. “As puny a
grade as any. What we need is saccharin, I
guess.”

He laughed.

“Well, all I know about it is that some
people use saccharin. What else is there?”
Kingsley smiled, happy to show off his
knowledge. “There are about nine different
kinds — perhaps more. There’s dextrose,
fructrose, levulose . . . Levulose!”

“What is levulose? Sounds like a bad
name.”

“Maybe they got some levulose mixed in
with the batch,” he said musingly.

"What is levulose?”

“Levulose is similar to dextrose except
that it is about one-tenth as sweet as sugar.”
“How do you tell ’em apart? Taste?”
“That’s one way. Dextrose is a flanged-
up nomenclature for ‘right-hand sugar’ be-
cause dextrose polarizes light to the right.
Levulose means ‘left-hand sugar’ because it
polarizes light to the left. Yet their mole-
cules are built the same except that one is a
left-hand image of the other.”

“Joe — get me the package!”

H E NODDED, went to the machine and
returned with the sugar carton. He
shook his head glumly. The box was lettered
in reverse.

“And, Joe — did you get any cigarettes
through this thing?”

He nodded, slowly. He was stupefied with
the enormity of it all. He returned to the
machine and cranked the distance back so
that the plane of view looked in on the same
room. He picked up a screw and inspected
it.

“Left-hand thread,” he said. He shoved
his hand through, and Sally caught it be-
tween her own.

“Is that your right hand?” she asked.

“It is.”

“It came out left.”

Sally handed him the sugar package after
taking out one cube. It came through the
machine re-reversed so that it could be read
normally.

He tasted the reversed cube and one that
had come through the second time. The re-
reversed sugar was normal, the other weak.

“Well,” he said, “that’s it!”

Sally left the laboratory at midnight, and
by the time she left there was no doubt.
Screws, shoes, printed matter ; all of them
went through reversed. Her parting word
was humorous :

“You could sell this to a shoe factory,”
she told him. “Then they could make only
right shoes and send half of their produc-
tion through the machine. Save manufac-
turing costs.”

He nodded glumly, and wondered where
he had heard the same words before. He
pondered this for some time after she had
gone, and he went to bed on the couch in a
spare room below. He went to sleep think-
ing about it, and dreamed about it after
slumber claimed him. . . .

Norman Blair felt the feather-light touch
on his lips and came awake quietly. This
business of awakening quietly was a matter
of practise in an institution where any night-
time commotion was cause for instant inves-
tigation by the guards. It was sensible to
come awake quietly because friends bring
news that could not be passed along with an
angry guard ordering you to separate. And
because it might be an enemy, Norman Blair
came awake with one hand inside a slit in
his mattress ; his hand clenched around a
sliver of steel that had been whetted to a
razor edge.

"Norm!”

“Sally!"

“Shut up,” came her fierce whisper.

“But how in the — ”

“Shut up and ask later. Get up and come
here.”

In the dim light Blair could see a large
circle of somewhat lighter texture. Framed
in this circle was Sally. She seemed to be
standing waist-high in the circle, and it put
her feet a good four inches below the level
of the floor. The bottom rim of the circle
was a few inches above the floor, Blair
shrugged.

“Is it safe?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Now come on-
quick !”

Blair asked no more questions. H«

THE MOBRJS TRAIL

climbed through the circle and fell heavfly
to the floor. The sound created enough dis-
turbance for the guard to come running with
a challenging command.

Sally snapped the switch and the circle
disappeared before Blair’s amazed eyes, and
it returned to its shiny silver surface.

“Your guess was good,” she told him.
Blair stood up and looked around. He
reached for her with his right hand, and she
laughed.

“Southpaw,” she chuckled.

“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“You’re reversed.”

“I’m what?”

“Shake,” she offered.

He held forth what he had known for
thirty-five years to be his right hand. Ap-
proaching it was what appeared to be the
girl’s left. She laughed and explained,
cranking the dials back as she talked.

“You’d find things hard to read,” she told
him, and he nodded as he picked up a book.

S ALLY watched the plate until the lab-
oratory was in the field erf view. Then
Blair stepped through the teleport and when
he came out the far side, he looked back at
her — but over the wrong shoulder.

"I’m over here,” she said. “You’ve been
reversed back again.”

He shook his head. “No more of that for
me, ” he told her fervently. He looked at the
gear contemplatively. “But it looks good.
Just what goes on?”

Sally Ransome began to explain. . . .

It was a mad dream, as all dreams are.
A vast machine that combined the more
complicated features of a cross-sectioned in-
ternal combustion engine and the turned-
inside-out interior of a Burroughs Calcula-
tor stamped, ground, formed, and assembled
shoes that came curling forth on a swiftly
moving belt of flexible metal.

The moving belt slowed farther along its
curving extension and came to a gradual
halt, and as the belt moved more and more
slowly along its length, the shoes began
to move. Slowly at first they moved, then
extended into a saunter, which changed to
a walk, and then to a brisk trot, and finally
into a bold and open run as they reached the
place where the belt ceased to move.

Though the belt slowed in its motion, the
shoes increased their speed so that the shoes
always moved forward at the same speed.
Just beyond the place where the belt ceased

117

to move, the shoes passed a tall, green-
painted stop-sign which flashed alternately
red and green.

Here the running stream of empty shoes
divided. Every second shoe arrived coinci-
dently with a red light and paused before
it leaped from the belt into an open box. The
rest continued on, up, around, and over, run-
ning madly until they went the length of the
broad metal belt, which returned upon itself
and joined smoothly.

The shoes leaped into the same box as
their fellows had entered — but now they
were all left shoes, because they had gone
completely around the belt, which was
twisted into a Mobius Strip.

A veritable giant of a man came and
picked up the box. He saw Kingsley and
with a piece of blue chalk, he wrote “One,
Two, Three, Infinity” on the side of the box.
As he turned away, there was a large block
letter sign on his back. It said George
Gamow. The giant left, and Kingsley leaped
onto the belt to follow.

Kingsley paused at the stoplight because
a voice said :

“But it looks good. Just what goes on?”

“It’s Mobius Space!” yelled Kingsley.

He leaped from the production line Mobi-
us belt — fell to the floor in a welter of bed-
clothes !

Then he remembered.

Gamow. A gentleman with a sense of
humor and a definite talent for explaining
the more abstract bits of higher mathematics
in terms that the man in the street could
understand and enjoy reading. It had been
Professor Gamow who had hinted that space
might be twisted in the Mobius fashion, and
that shoes sent across space might turn out
to be left shoes, thus simplifying the pro-
duction problems.

“That’s where she heard it before!” mat-
tered Kingsley.

CHAPTER V
The Hijacker

B ELOW in the laboratory, Blair looked
at Sally. “What was that?” he asked
in a whisper.

"Joe Kingsley.”

Blair picked up a heavy file and hefted it

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

118

menacingly. Then he dropped it on the bench
again with a clatter.

“He’s valuable,” Blair said shortly. “If
this gimmick goes wrong, someone’s got to
repair it."

“What are you going to do?”

“Take him.”

Sally smiled wisely. “He’s soft on me.
Make it look like you've kidnaped me, too,
Norm.”

“Why?”

“You’re soft on me also. Would you act
quick to see me saved from having my feet
burned?”

He winked at her instead of answering.
He reached for Sally quickly and carried her
to the chair, where he dropped her roughly.
He roughed up her hair and slapped her
across the face several times, not sharply,
but enough to bring an unmistakable flush
to her cheek and a few tears to her eyes.

He tore her tress at the shoulder a bit, and
then added another inch to the tear after he
saw the result. More soft white shoulder
gleamed, and Blair nodded calculatingly.

Above, Kingsley blinked uncertainly as
the file clattered and then, wondering why
burglars would enter a laboratory, he headed
for the stairs.

He entered the laboratory and was met
with a sharp chop against the side of his head
from the edge of Blair’s hand. He slumped,
senseless, and when he opened his eyes, he
was neatly taped with electrician’s tape. He
looked around and assumed that the tape on
Sally’s wrists was as tight as that on his own.
He glared at Blair.

“What goes on ?” he demanded.

“I’m taking over.”

“But you—”

“Shut up, chum. I’ve done it.”

Kingsley looked at Sally. The girl
shrugged unhappily.

“He met me as i left,” she said.

“Anybody who’s working this late at
night must be doing something good,”
grunted Blair. “And then there’s that
strange coin and the reversed cigarette pack-
age.”

“What reversed coin?”

“The one you tossed into the coin box at
the corner. Huh ! Looks like I got here sec-
ond.” He glared at Sally.

“She’s a magazine writer.”

“That so?”

Sally nodded.

“Maybe,” grunted Blair. “And maybe

you’re fronting for another gang."

“She couldn’t be!”

“Shut up.” Blair faced the gear. “How
does this run?”

“I’ll never tell you.”

Blair faced Kingsley coldly. “Like to
watch me slice off a few toes?”

“You won’t make me talk.”

“Brave man,” sneered Blair. “But I mean
her toes !”

“You wouldn't.”

“Watch.” With a swagger, Norman Blair
went to the tool table and inspected it criti-
cally. There were saws and files and drills
and other items of the metal-worker’s trade,
but no knife. Blair grunted angrily, and
turned to face the taped-up pair.

“There are other means.” he said omi-
nously, angered by his failure to find a knife.

He looked around the room and his eyes
fastened on the teleport. It had been turned
off by the power switch and the controls set
as Sally had left them following Blair’s re-
re versement.

The distant plane of view was not many
feet from the prime plane, and Blair knew it.
He could run the gear if he had to, for he
had seen Sally do it. He preferred to pre-
tend ignorance, however, because it gave
him a better chance to learn the workings of
the equipment, and would also give some
weight to the pretense of Sally’s innocence.

H E FUMBLED with the switch uncer-
tainly. He swore at Kingsley for not
labeling the controls, and called the scientist
a fool. He realized in his mind that the sci-
entist was familiar enough with the gear to
know its every part, and so needed no labels,
but he did not say so.

He snapped the switch, and the silver
plate changed slowly from solidity to trans-
lucence to complete transparency. Then,
with a sly grin, Blair went over and lifted
the bound girl in his arms. He carried her
forward until her feet entered the circle.

From Kingsley’s position, he could see
back into the circle. His field of view showed
most of the girl’s body and Blair’s hands as
he held the girl suspended. It was an eery
sight, for beyond them he could see Blair
facing away from him, holding the girl with
her feet extended through the circle and be-
yond the girl’s feet he could see his own —
No ! It was not an image! It was himself !
His mind corrected itself almost automati-
cally, though he struggled to comprehend the

THE MOBIUS TRAIL

completely strange condition. It was some-
thing that never before had happened.

Blair lowered the girl until the bottom of
the circle supported her legs just across the
back of the knees. With the hand so freed,
Blair reached for the “OFF” switch, turn-
ing back to Kingsley.

“Might be interesting,” he said callously.
“When this goes off, will she be stretched
out a few yards at the knee or will her legs
just drop off? ”

Kingsley did not know, and the idea made
him turn a bit sick. Sally turned a true pale
and screamed.

“Give you three,” snapped Blair. “One,
tw — ”

“You win,” said Kingsley in a dry voice.

Blair laughed sourly and lifted the girl
back to her chair where he dumped her un-
ceremoniously. Then he went back to the
tool table and found a file which he poked
through the circle. He snapped the switch.

There was a brilliant flash of white, a brief
wave of beat, and a sound similar to the
blowing of a fuse. The far end of the file
dropped to the floor with a clatter and the
cut end smoked as it hit the linoleum. The
end that Blair had was held only for a mo-
ment; then it grew hot along its length as
the heat at the end came along the length of
the file. Blair dropped it with a howl.

“Now talk,” he snapped.

Kingsley began to explain. . . .

* * * * *

The porter came through the sleeping cars
quietly and tapped at the bedroom door.
Walter Murdoch came out of fitful slumber
quietly and opened the door expectantly.
The porter handed him a telegram, explain-
ing that it had been picked up on the fly at
the last town.

It was in code, but Murdoch went to work
on it quickly, and came up with :

RE REVERSED PRINTS CLASSIFIED AND
SIFTED TO PROFESSOR JOSEPH KINGSLEY OF
HOLLAND COLLEGE OF SCIENCE. GOOD LUCK.
MONROE

MONROE

Murdoch nodded. He knew that by “clas-
sified and sifted,” Monroe meant that the
cards had been run through the selector ma-
chine and had come up with several, and
that these had been sorted as to possible con-
nection and discarded until only the glaring
connection between Joseph Kingsley and the
town of Holland remained.

This at least was a true lead, one that he

119

could get his fingers into. He consulted his
watch and then went back to bed. He would
arrive in Holland by early morning and that
was as soon as he could make it.

Tomorrow would be a busy day !

* * * * *

“And so it’s like that,” said Blair with a
sneer. “And the next thing to do is to get
this junk to some safer place.”

He scoured the laboratory and the other
rooms and returned with a .32 target pistol,
which he inspected cynically. A gangster of
the first water, Blair preferred the heavier
.45 automatic, but this was at least a weapon,
and that was what he wanted.

His handling of the teleport’s controls was
crude but he knew that practise with the ma-
chine would increase his dexterity. His first
move was to locate a garage containing a
moving van. Then he marked the controls
carefully.

EXT, Blair returned the distant circle
to the laboratory and stepped through.

Reversed, he had some trouble with the
controls, but he reset them to their pencil-
mark calibrations and thickened the plate
until passage was possible. He picked up his
pistol and stepped through. He breathed a
sigh of relief when he attained the distant
garage without trouble. He looked around
the garage warily, and then walked boldly
towards the moving van.

“Hey! What goes?” came a challenging
cry.

Blair turned and coldly pulled the trigger.
The watchman fell, squirmed once, and was
silent.

Then Blair opened the doors of the garage
and drove the van out. He paused long
enough to close the doors because he did not
want the watchman to be found while the
teleport circle was available.

He stopped the van before the laboratory
a haH-hour later and raced upstairs to turn
off the machine.

“Now,” he said. “Before I start taking
this stuff apart, I’ll send you fellows to a nice
safe place.”

Blair turned the machine on again and
sent the controls spinnings. He located a
neat house beside a lake and grinned happily
as he inspected it through and through.

“Everything neat,” he said. He picked
up Kingsley and with some difficulty he car-
ried the scientist to the circle. “You in
here,” he said, and he shoved Kingsley

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

120

through the circle.

Joe Kingsley landed on his side and turned
over in time to see the circle vanish. He
wondered in which room Sally would be put,
and then started to struggle with his bonds.

Kingsley intended to break out of this
place at once and give the alarm.

He was still struggling with the metal
walls, the heavy shutters, and the sealed
door, and cursing the complete lack of any
tools when Blair and Sally Ransome left the
laboratory with the machinery all neatly dis-
connected and stored in the van.

It was slightly past the gray of dawn.

CHAPTER VI
Too Much Coincidence

M URDOCH yawned as he stepped
from the train and looked around for
a taxicab. Holland, he thought, must be a
really small town. There was nothing awake.
Nothing awake, that is, excepting the big
transcontinental truck that was waiting for
the train to start so that it could cross the
tracks.

He saw a sign pointing to Holland Col-
lege campus and began to trudge down the
road in the early morning light. He yawned
again and swore that some day he would
quit this nerve-wracking job and take up a
nice quiet one. Something like the guy driv-
ing the moving van, who was sharp enough
to have a woman going along with him.

The train moved on, and Blair crossed
the tracks and left the scene as the Treasury
agent headed up the road toward the labora-
tory.

It was before things should begin stirring,
but Murdoch beat on the door of the labora-
tory anyway. Then he waited and waited,
and the ring of cigarette butts grew about
his feet as he sat there on the gray stone
and fumed. It was almost eight o’clock be-
fore the first of the townspeople began to
stir about.

“I’m Murdoch,” he said to the first man
who came to the laboratory. “I’m looking
for Professor Joseph Kingsley.”

“I doubt that he is here,” said the man.
“I’m Edward Holmes. Kingsley usually gets
here about nine.”

“I’ll wait.”

At nine-forty, Murdoch went inside and
asked Holmes where Kingsley lived.

“He has a small apartment at Forty-one
Normal Street. Occasionally he sleeps in the
rooms we have here for men who have
worked too late. I looked there, however.”

“He wasn’t there, I take it.”

“He was not. I am a bit puzzled, though.
He had been here. The bed had been used
but was not made. Most_ of the men are
neat, and Kingsley was one of the best. I’d
try his home.”

“Telephone?”

“Of course.”

Holmes led Murdoch to one of the offices
and used the telephone. There was no an-
swer.

Murdoch then requested a taxicab, and
waited with Holmes until the cab arrived.
Hiring the cab for the day, Murdoch was
driven to Kingsley’s apartment. He burgled
his way in with a set of master keys and saw
at once that the apartment had not been used
for days.

He went back to the laboratory and asked
more questions, checking on Kingsley’s hab-
its. Then, to check upon some of Kingsley’s
habits in person, Murdoch took to his cab
again.

The feeling of frustration welled once
more in Murdoch’s heart, and he felt glum
about missing the scientist. He realized that
he had not eaten breakfast, and asked the
driver to drop him at a restaurant — and how
about a cup of coffee ?

“Sure.”

“Know Kingsley?”

“Nope. Heard of him, though. Seemed a
smart enough feller. Newspaper?”

“I suppose. Any funnies? Nothing of
real interest to an out-of-towner, you know. ”

“We have a good one,” said the driver
proudly.

The newspaper was fair for a town of that
size. It was filled with local items about
people who were undoubtedly all well-known
to the rest of the town, for the personal an-
gle was high in every item. The comic strips
were good ; taken from a national syndicate
and given prominence.

The radio in the restaurant stopped play-
ing music as Murdoch finished the paper,
then there started a news broadcast. Indo-
lently, Murdoch listened to the radio while
finishing his coffee, and did not realize what
he had heard until the account was almost
over.

THE MOBIUS TRAIL

Then he sat bolt upright and told the
driver :

“The police station and make it quick. . .

I ’M CAPTAIN HARRIS, Mr. Mur-
doch. What can I do for you?” The
police captain handed Murdoch his cre-
dentials and looked expectantly at the Treas-
ury agent.

“I just heard a news broadcast and I want
to know the particulars.”

“Which one?”

“Someone was found murdered in a ga-
rage.”

“Oh. Tim Lake. Too bad about Tim.
Tough lines for his wife and kids.”

“Have any idea who did it?”

“Some foreigner, no doubt.”

Murdoch smiled. “How can you tell?”
“The bullet was about the size of an
American thirty-two, and the right weight.
But the ballistics man tells me that it must
have been one of the foreign guns, because
the rifling was to the left instead of to the
right. He told me that some foreign guns
are rifled left-hand.”

“That’s what I wanted to get straight,”
said Murdoch. “What kind of a gun did he
say it was?”

“He didn’t know.”

“Uni. T wouldn’t -know either. I doubt
that any English gun is rifled to the left,
and most of the French and German guns
are millimeter sizes, neither of which popu-
lar sizes fall too well into the thirty-two
caliber class. The seven millimeter is about
two-seventy-five thousandths of an inch ;
and the nine millimeter is about three-fifty-
four thousandths. I’d have to check the gun
expert at the Bureau to state with any posi-
tiveness, but I believe that left-hand rifling
is comparatively rare.”

“Then what in heaven’s name — ”
Murdoch shrugged. He contemplated the
situation for a moment and decided that
there was far too much highly circumstantial
evidence to start a hue and cry for Joseph
Kingsley. After all, Murdoch knew too little.
There was a reversed quarter that came
from Holland with fingerprints on it which,
when reversed again photographically, be-
came the prints of Professor Kingsley.
There was a reversed folder from a pack of
cigarettes, also from Holland. There was
the rather strange disappearance of Kings-
ley, though Murdoch had not checked too
thoroughly as yet. And now this bullet,

121

claimed to be a .32 but shot from a gun that
was rifled to the left. A gun that there was
little likelihood was an American weapon.

Even so, the chain of circumstance did not
lead too directly to Joseph Kingsley. Not
enough to start a hunt for the scientist.

The telegraph in the police station started
to rattle, and the tape came spilling out at
high speed.

“Pardon me,” said Captain Harris.

He went to the machine and began to
read the tape, leaving Murdoch to think the
situation over more thoroughly. Harris
came back shaking his head.

“Trouble?” asked Murdoch sympatheti-
cally.

“Yeah. Jail break.”

“That’s bad.”

“You bet. A rather clever fellow, too.”

“How did he do it?”

“No one knows. Of course, the tape was
quite sketchy, but it said something about a
convict named Norman Blair being found
missing this morning at check-up. The
means of his escape were unknown since he
was locked in his cell last night. His cell-
mate knows nothing about it.”

“Who?” demanded Murdoch.

“Norman Blair. Know him?”

“Slightly,” said Murdoch, stunned by the
sheer accumulation of coincidence.

The trail here pointed more or less to
Kingsley because of the fragment of finger-
print on the spurious coin. And now to
have the further coincidence of the convict,
Norman Blair, break jail was too much.

Blair possessed at least one minute frag-
ment of fingerprint that was a mirror image
of some finger of Professor Kingsley. At
least, similar enough so that there was
plausible connection between the two frag-
ments. Of course, one cannot state identifi-
cation on the basis of a mere quarter-inch
square of smudged print when it was sheer
guesswork as to which finger it came from.

Y ET the connection was solid enough.

It pointed to Kingsley.

Enough, thought Murdoch, to send out
at least a “wanted-fpr-questioning” circular
for Professor Kingsley. Too bad that fired
bullets seldom have fingerprints on them.

Murdoch went back to the laboratory and
took Captain Harris’s fingerprint man with
him. Dr. Holmes let them enter Kingsley’s
laboratory with a master key, and stood
dumbfounded when he looked at the empty

122 THRILLING WONDER STO til ..

room, shaking his head.

“It begins to add up,” said Murdoch.

It was an hour before the fingerprint
expert was finished. It took another hour
to send them to Washington by telephoto,
and another hour later an answer came to
Walter Murdoch :

PRINTS DEFINITELY BLAIR, KINGSLEY, AND
WOMAN SALLY RANSOMF.. PRINTS ON DIRTY
DISHES MIRROR REPRODUCTIONS OF KINGSLEY
AND RANSOME, NO BLAIR CAN YOU GET
PRINTS FROM CIGARETTE FOLDER?

TONY MONROE

“No," grumbled Murdoch. “That one
was handled by too many people.”

But Murdoch’s belief that there was some
connection between Blaii and Kingsley was
confirmed, as strange as it was. And within
the next couple of hours, a general alarm
was out for Joseph Kingsley, Sally Ransome,
and Norman Blair wanted for suspicion of
murder.

Meanwhile, the real criminals were rolling
swiftly across the countryside in a stolen
moving van with their loot. Another day
of luck would see them at their hideout far
from any city large enough to have more
than the sketchiest of police depart-
ments. . . .

An instant after Joseph Kingsley saw the
circle disappear, he began to look for a
means of breaking his electrician’s tape
manacles. His hands were taped behind him
so he could not use his teeth, and they were
taped too high to permit him to pass his
feet between them.

He inspected the room carefully. The
walls and ceiling were of a satiny metal and
the furniture seemed bulky and round-
cornered. Light came from tightly shuttered
windows and was inadequate. Kingsley
found that by wriggling like an eel, he could
move about the room slowly and painfully,
and after inspecting each piece of furniture
and finding it useless for breaking his bonds,
he located a radio receiver.

He knew it could be used and his heart
leaped. The front was smooth and clear
of anything likely to be of use to him, but
Kingsley knew that somewhere in the back
would be something that could be used. He
levered the radio from the wall, hoping it
was not a model with a closed-in back.

It was not.

And then Kingsley levered the radio for-

ward on its face and eeled himself to a sit-
ting position on the edge of the cabinet-
rear, dangling his bound feet inside. He
kicked against the largest of the several tubes
and broke it with a loud pop.

Then he sat upon the floor and dangled
his hands over the back. He located the
brutally splintered glass of the tube that
clung to the base where it was inserted in
the socket. He cut his wrist twice before
he succeeded in getting the edge of the tape
against the sharp glass.

A minute later lie was free.

He unwrapped his ankles and stood up.
He looked around the place, trying the
doors and windows. They were locked with
a complex lock that couldn’t be forced with-
out tools of some sort. He did not know,
but the place was a veritable fortress, built
by Blair as a hideout and as a place for
a final standoff if it came to a last ditch
battle against Law and Order. And such a
place, difficult to enter, was equally difficult
to get out of when the owner desired to
make it so.

Kingsley hammered on the walls to let
Sally know that he was free and that she
must not lose hope. His one intent was to
break free and to get to some place where he
could let the authorities know what was go-
ing on.

H E TOOK time to ponder the strange-
ness of reversal. He knew which was
his right hand, and the mirror on the wall
showed him to be right. He smoked with
the correct hand and his coat was buttoned
correctly. In his left hand pants pocket he
found his keys just as they should be.

But a book on an end table read as it
might read when viewed in a mirror, and
the mirror proved to him that this was so.
When he approached something it came as it
was expected to, and as he walked a curved
course things moved as they should. He
had no trouble in getting around.

But he knew that the matter of position
was a matter or relativity and that regardless
of how he were reversed, a strange room
would not seem stranger than normal. In
his own apartment things would be reversed
to him.

Though it was really true that he was
reversed with respect to it, it is human
nature to interpret things in relation to your-
self. The driver’s license and the papers in
his wallet read properly to him, for they

THE MOBIUS TRAIL 123

had been reversed along with him. Only
those things that had not been reversed
seemed backward.

He could get along all right. But have
someone ask him for his signature and he
would be trapped, for he could not write
backward — and other people would not ac-
cept a reversed signature. Besides, Kings-
ley was right-handed, and despite the fact
that to his reversed senses he seemed normal,
other people would see him as a southpaw.

CHAPTER VII
Hideout Fortress

F ORGETTING the strangeness of it all,
Kingsley began to think of some way
to get out of this trap. The shuttered win-
dows, he discovered, were of tool steel and
near to being impregnable even with the
best of equipment, let alone his bare hands.
The doors were steel-faced and sturdy. Yet
he reasoned that a door between rooms
might be less firm than those leading outside,
and he determined to try.

The cupboards that lined one end of the
room were locked, and they resisted the
battering of three wrecked floor lamps and
one ruined chair before he gave up. The
door at the end of the room seemed likely,
since he could not open the cupboards to
find something useful in breaking out, so
he inspected the door and shrugged. He
could do no i lore than try, and if he failed
lie would hav ■ tried, at least.

Kingsley tried the sofa, and found it too
heavy for him to lift. The heavier chair
was bulky and he staggered under its weight,
but it took a staggering mass to give him
hope. He started from the far end of the
room and began moving forward with the
chair on his shoulders. He increased his
walk to an uncertain run. He stumbled at
about eight feet from the door and his groan-
ing curse rang out through the room as he
pitched forward under the chair’s weight.

But the stumble proved fortunate. It gave
him a headlong velocity he could not have
achieved had he merely rammed at the door,
and the hurling chair hit the door with force
enough to shatter the bolt. The door opened
slightly, and Kingsley, muttering about for-
tune coming in strange ways to the

righteous, hurled the chair again but did not
stumble this time. The weakened bolt gave
way and Kingsley went into the next room
on a headlong run.

This room was furnished as a combined
kitchen and dining room, and Kingsley lost
no time in drinking from a glass he found
on the sink. Then he looked around.

There was something wrong with the
setup, he knew, and he spent some time in
trying to unravel the evidence presented, for
there was some conflict that he could not,
at first, determine. As in the case of the
living room, cabinets and cupboards were
locked. Dishes were neatly stowed in a glass-
doored cabinet which was not locked.

There was a faint film of dust in the place.

The refrigerator . motor started with a
faint purr, and Kingsley opened it to see
what was inside. It was stocked ; not filled
to the brim with neatly-stacked packages
and dishes, but in the normal fashion.

Kingsley looked out of the kitchenette
window upon a lake that glistened an un-
broken blue through the trees. There was
no sign of any other occupancy of the region
from where Kingsley stood, but he knew
that certain territories in the country were
like that. A summer cabin could easily be
located in such a manner as to be away
and free of other people by mile after mile,
or the next house might be only a couple
of hundred feet through the woods.

The shutter on the kitchenette window
gave him too limited a view. Kingsley could
not tell which kind of sheer loneliness it was.

But as he tried to see more of the surface
of the lake, he began to get the discrepancy.
Here was a summer cabin on a lake, obvious-
ly miles from civilization. Locked and
stowed as if abandoned for the season, but
awaiting the arrival of its owners for the
next season. But in contrast to this was the
running water, the electricity, and the re-
frigerator stocked with food as though it
had been used recently. The film of dust
was that of a few days or at the most a week,
but not that of month after month.

In spite of the locked and abandoned look
of the place, someone had lived here re-
cently.

The door in the kitchenette was open
slightly and it showed stairs leading upwards
into darkness. Kingsley opened the door the
rest of the way and put his foot on the first
step.

“Sally!” he called. She must be up here

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

124

somewhere, locked in some room.

There was no answer.

“Sally!”

He paused in doubt. Had that gangster
hurt her?

“Sally!” he yelled.

Or had the crook kept her in Holland,
and what was her fate?

K INGSLEY raced up the last few steps
and burst into the room on the right.
It was empty but a faint perfume filled the
room. It was furnished as a boudoir and it
had been occupied by a very feminine woman.
Here the evidences of recent occupancy
were greater than downstairs. A pair of
sheer nylons were folded on the dresser and
a full complement of cosmetics were on the
dressing table. The bed was made neatly,
and a chenille robe was folded and laid
across the bed.

On the lapel of the robe was an em-
broidered script-monogram, and Kingsley
held it to the mirror to decipher it.

“ ‘S. B. R.’,” he said, wondering.

He found a book on the bedside table and
opened it to the flyleaf. The scrawl would
have been hard to read if properly presented,
and Kingsley had trouble in reading it
through the mirror. This was partly due
to the fact that he did not want to believe
his eyes. The signature was :

Sally B. Ransome

He slid open the boudoir table drawer and
found a small pile of letters. The top letter
was a long, lengthy letter from a man in
jail which went on in a sentimental tone that
sounded false, somehow. Certain words and
phrases were misused, and below these was
the same bad scrawl as on the flyleaf. Con-
nected, these annotations added up to the
fact that Sally should investigate some
rather weird happenings in Holland. Illinois,
because they might prove interesting.
“Sally,” he said in a dry voice.

So that was how the girl had happened to
be so conveniently interested in the Fortean
Society. And Sally Ransome must have
used the teleport to get her man out of jail !

He found a chain of keys in the bottom
drawer. The identification tag said “Norman
Blair,” which meant nothing to Kingsley
but made him believe that Blair must be
the man in question. He pocketed the keys
and looked around, thinking.

There was no question as to his next
move. He must get out of here quick and
report to the authorities.

The keys worked, and within a minute
Kingsley was outside and walking briskly
up the narrow roadway that wound in and
out of the trees. It was several miles long
and in poor shape, but Kingsley went along
the trail until he came to the main road.

Here he paused. Then because one way
was as good as the other from his own stand-
point, Kingsley turned left— knowing as he
did that he was really turning right — and
started up the main road.

He began to whistle cheerfully. For the
first time since Blair had shown up, Kingsley
was confident that he could handle the
situation.

Kingsley had not gone far beyond the
first curve when the moving van came up
the road from the other direction and turned
into the trail. It made heavy going through
the narrow road, and it was almost an hour
before Blair and Sally Ransome came to
the house by the lake. Blair stopped the
truck and turned to Sally.

“You’ll have to be tied again, you know.”

She nodded. “How long?”

“Long enough for Kingsley to be con-
vinced of the necessity of putting this gear
together.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“Then it’s into the cellar with him!”

Sally held her hands forward and Blair
taped them loosely. Then he threw her over
his shoulder and carried her to the door.
From her handbag he took her keys and
opened the door. He carried her in and
dropped her on an easy chair, then he looked
around.

“Hey!” he exploded.

He raced through the door to the kitch-
enette and stumbled over the battered easy
chair. He swore, but then wasted no time
in inspecting the rest of the house.

“He’s escaped!” snapped Blair, untaping
the girl.

“Escaped?”

"Gone. Come on, Sally. We’ve got work
to do!”

She nodded. The thing to do was to set
up the teleport as quickly as possible. Flow
they would search for Joe Kingsley neither
of them knew, but it must be done. And if
Kingsley had really escaped and had the
authorities out in full cry for them, what
better way of escape was there than to walk

125

THE MOBIUS TRAIL

through the teleport to some distant place?
It meant abandoning the thing, but if Kings-
ley were alive he could eventually be re-
captured and tortured into reproducing the
machine.

T OGETHER they carried tlie instru-
ments into the house and put them in
neat array in the cellar. Luckily for them
Kingsley was a methodical man, for the
various bits of equipment — the generators,
the supplies, the driving compc-ents — were
all more or less standard, or had been
standard bits of electrical gear at one time,
and they were equipped with standard input
and output plugs which fit standard cables.

Had the gear been built as a unit the
initial move would have been impossible.
But as it was, each factor in the generation
of the space field was produced by some
small bit of equipment or a series of small
pieces all cable-connected.

As Norman Blair carried the various
cabinets into the cellar, Sally found the
right cables and plugged them in. In two
hours, Blair smiled wryly, held his breath,
and snapped the main switch.

Obediently, the silver plate glistened
translucently, then became transparent to
show them a view of the forest outside.

“It works!” cheered Blair.

“Now we’ll find Kingsley!”

Blair shook his head.

“First we replace that radio,” he said
sourly. “We’ve got to keep one ear out
for the cops, and for any news broadcasts.”
He manipulated the dials and sent the
plane of view scurrying across the country
to a large city. He held it high in the air
until he located a store carrying a complete
line of radio receivers, then entered the ware-
house below the store. Here Blair removed
three radio sets in their complete cartons be-
fore he turned the gear off.

He opened the sets and plugged them in.
They worked, which surprised Blair a bit
but would not have surprised a radio engi-
neer. Giving it no more thought, Blair
turned one of them to a short wave band
that carried police calls from the nearest
city, set the second radio to a station in the
same city which played phonograph records
twenty-four hours a day, and gave the latest
news every half-hour. The third radio he
did not tune, but left it running as a spare,
just in case.

"Now,” said Blair, “We will collect Joe

Kingsley.” He sounded confident.

“But where?”

Blair smiled. “Just hope we’re not too
late,” he said.

“But where?”

“Sally, if you were a law-abiding, peace-
loving citizen and you were in the same
kind of mess as Kingsley, where would you
go?”

“To the police.”

“Naturally. And since Kingsley went
afoot, he’d get to the main road and go
either left or right. There’s one town about
twelve miles up the road to the right, and
one about fifteen miles down the road to the
left. We’ll take the right-hand road first.”

CHAPTER VIII
A Scientist Disappears

K INGSLEY came to the outskirts of a
small town. It would not he too long,
now. He quickened his pace along the main
street of town. He wanted to get this settled
and finished so that he could return to work.

He stopped a man and asked where the
police station was, and after getting direc-
tions, went to the station and entered holdly.

The man at the desk was scanning a sheet
of paper that Kingsley could not see, so he
waited a moment until the desk-sergeant
finished.

The officer looked up and blinked.

He looked down to the paper again and
frowned.

“Sergeant, I’m Joe Kingsley and I want to
report — ”

“So you are?”

“Yes.”

“And what is it that you want to report?”
Unseen, the officer’s hand was pressing a
button under the desk.

“I want to report a theft, an escaped
criminal, and — ”

The door behind the sergeant opened and
three uniformed policemen came boiling out,
their guns at ready.

“There he is!” snapped the sergeant.
"But what — ”

“Up!” snapped the sergeant waving his
hand.

Kingsley shook his head in disbelief. "But
.1 want — ”

126 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

The three officers split as they came
around the desk. Kingsley looked into the
muzzle of a Police Positive while the other
two came at him from either side and took
him by the arms.

They carried him backward, lifting him
so that his feet scarcely touched the floor.
He was forcibly dropped into a hard chair,
his hands looped over the open arms, passed
across his lap, and handcuffs snapped. Com-
pletely trapped, Kingsley looked at the
sergeant with pained wonder in his face.
“But Pm Joe Kingsley.”

“So you said. Doctor Joseph Kingsley,
suspected of aiding a criminal escape from
jail, theft of an automobile, and murder.”
“Me?”

“You! Now where is he?”

“Where is who?”

“Your accomplice.”

“I don’t know, but he’s on his way here
— ” Kingsley paused. “But he’s no accom-
plice of mine.”

“No? Make something else of this, then.”
The sergeant held the handbill in front of
Kingsley. It was a formal notice of his
identity, his photograph, and the usual de-
tails of such handbills similar to those posted
in police stations and post offices. In ad-
dition, there was another section appended
which explained that in the case of Kingsley,
there might be a discrepancy in the finger-
prints, and gave a complete set of reversed
prints as an alternative.

Beside that of Kingsley was a similar
description of Norman Blair, and on the
other side was one of Sally Ransome. A
rather large reward was offered for any in-
formation leading to capture of any or all
of the three.

“But this isn’t true — ”

“No? We’ll take your prints and see
whether you have left or right-hand prints.”
The sergeant took Kingsley’s wallet and
opened it. His brow furrowed. “Anybody
got a mirror?” he asked, scowling.
“Why?” asked one of the officers.
“Everything in this wallet looks as if it
had been passed through a mirror, like ‘Alice
Through the Looking Glass,’ ” he said. “If
nothing else, Kingsley, this would be enough.
How do you do it?”

“It’s the teleport.”

“The what?”

“Teleport. A means of teleportation.”
“Yeah. I’m sure. A bit more of that
double talk and you’ll learn how to talk

easy,” the sergeant threatened.

“But it is.”

“Bah! Go on, bright guy.”

“The teleport transmits objects through
space by bringing two locations side by side
in superspace. The trouble is that super-
space — or space itselL— is twisted as a
Mobius Strip is twisted so that everything
that goes through it comes out reversed.”
“Forget it, chum. Boys, plant this guy
in Cell Four. We'll save this for the F. B. I.
This guy ain’t saying a thing.”

“I can tell you where Norman Blair is.”
“Good. Where is he?”

ONE of them saw the faint shimmer-
ing circle because it came in through
a window and was lost in the dust-spreckled
shaft of sunshine that slanted down toward
the floor. It was there but a moment, then
it slid downward into the floor edgewise,
but tilting with its lower edge forward as
if to come toward Joe Kingsley on a glide.

Below the surface of the floor it went.
Its edge came up once halfway across the
floor, then dipped downward again after
Blair had caught his bearings.

“I’ll have to show you,” Kingsley said.
“Can’t you tell us?”

“Yes, but remember that I’m reversed
and every right-hand turn looks to me like
a left-hand curve. We’d get all mixed up.”
“Could you draw us a map?”

“Yes but — ”

“Draw us a map and we’ll look at it
through a mirror.”

“It’ll be crude.”

“Just give us an idea, that’s all.”

“I’ll he more than glad to hel — ”
Kingsley’s offer of help was cut off by a
yelp of fear. He and his chair and a three-
foot circle of the floor dropped down and
out of sight into a room that stood sideward
from that hole in the floor.

The desk sergeant caught one glimpse of
equipment, a man, and a woman apparently
standing against a wall, and he saw Kingsley
fall down from the police station, then take
a curve below the floor, falling sideward
against that strange wall.

The scene disappeared abruptly. The
policemen were looking through the three-
foot hole in the floor at the basement of the
police station.

“The crooks who own that could steal any-
thing!” The desk sergeant exploded.

He headed for the telephone quickly. . . .

THE MOBIUS TRAIL 127

"Well, how do you do?” sneered Blair,
planting a kick against Joe Kingsley’s
sprawled form.

Kingsley was helpless, and all he could do
was glare. Blair shrugged and stood the
chair upright roughly.

"Take it easy,” he said. Then a thought
came to Blair. "Look, Kingsley, can’t we
make a deal?”

“Deal?” asked Kingsley.

"Yeah. This thing will make us rich
quick. Maybe I could do something to make
up for the rough way I’ve handled you, and
we could throw in together.”

Kingsley shook his head. “It’s murder,”
he said.

"Murder’s easy,” said Blair callously.
“And with this thing they’ll never catch
us.”

"No? You might think differently.”

Sally shrugged. "Money makes people
think differently,” she said. “Why not show
him ?”

“Did y’ever think of that?” sneered Blair.
“Just watch!”

He manipulated the controls and sent the
field of view flying across the country. He
located the money vault of the Chase
National Bank in New York and lifted pack-
age after package of currency from the vault,
handing them to Sally, who stacked the
packages neatly on a table near the wall.

Then Blair headed the field of view for
Chicago, and in a similar fashion rifled the
First National Bank. Next was the San
Francisco branch of the Manhattan Trust
Company.

"Money?” he laughed happily. “Or,” he
added seriously, "maybe jewelry.”

Tiffany’s vault appeared behind the circle
and Blair waved Sally forward. She selected
a ring and a necklace and strutted a bit when
she put them on.

“Or maybe revenge,” growled Blair
angrily.

He found the State Prison and thickened
the circle just behind the warden’s head.
Quickly he reached through and slammed a
fist into the back of the warden’s head. The
warden dropped like a limp rag and Blair
gloated a bit before he turned the teleport
off.

“Anything you want,” he told Kingsley.

J OE shook his head.

"Come on, fellow. We need you.”
Blair picked up a hand-ax and headed for

Kingsley. Joe shuddered, but Blair hit the
chair arms and broke Kingsley free. "Now,”
he told Joe, “we both know how to get you
out of those bracelets. We’ll do it as soon
as you decide to throw in with us. We need
a technician to keep this thing in operation
— or to build another one, larger and better.”
“No,” said Kingsley.

“Think it over, chum,” said Blair.
"You’ll work for me willingly or not, you
know.”

"No.”

Blair laughed ominously. He knew that
Kingsley would, ultimately. . . .

Walter Murdoch was waiting for the air-
plane when it landed on the small field out-
side of Holland. He said hello to the pilot
and climbed into the jet fighter and was
borne into the sky with a swoosh. The plane
streaked north at six hundred miles per
hour while Murdoch called Monroe over
the plane’s radio.

"Hello, Tony. It begins to jell.”

"I know, Walt. Keep it up. What’s the
latest ?”

"About the same time you sent me the
dope on the rifling of several banks and the
abrupt disappearance of Kingsley from the
police station, the plane arrived. I’m on my
way to Little Superior, Wisconsin, right
now.”

"Need any help ?”

"No. The local cops can handle it, I
think. Besides, we have no time.”

“Why?”

"Well, from the situations that we’ve
managed to uncover, it seems as though
Kingsley invented some gadget that can
ship stuff from one spot to another in-
stantly.”

“Yes.”

"Well, the way to catch a crook that can
get around that fast isn’t by frontal attack
by a small army. We’ve got to do it by
stealth. ”

"You’re right. I just hope we can catch
up with them.”

“I’m trying, Tony. Better put the rest of
the force on it too.”

“I’ll wait until you see what you can see
in Little Superior. I’d rather not get the
whole country excited about this thing. Re-
member, once this gadget gets known all
over the world there’ll be cause for inter-
national trouble. And we don’t really know
what it is, you know.”

"That’s right — but we’ll find out,” said

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

128

Walter Murdoch certainly.

He shut off the radio and the speech-
scrambler, but he had an uncertain, queasy
feeling that he could not be certain that
Kingsley or Blair was not following his
every word from some unseen place right in
the jet fighter.

It was an hour and twenty minutes of jet
flying from Holland, Illinois, to Little
Superior, Wisconsin. And then Murdoch
was in the police station talking to the
sergeant who was still a bit pop-eyed over
the absolutely incredible escape of the
scientist.

“So he disappeared?”

“Right through that hole in the floor.”

“Dropped right down?”

“Sort of down and sideward. Beneath
there was a room that seemed to be standing
on one end.”

Murdoch thought for a moment. He
nodded.

“There was a shiny circle?”

“Yes, it — well, from what little we saw,
it went like this : First we knew was when
Kingsley fell into a three-foot circle. Then
we saw this sideward room, just like looking
into the room from that circle in the floor.
Next, the circle thickened, sort of, and the
room faded from view abruptly. Next the
circle — the hole in the floor — was silverlike.
Then it disappeared and all we could see
was the basement.”

“That thing must have some sort of
portal, a doorway-passage,” said Murdoch.
“Probably vertical on the machine itself. But
the distant portal can l>e tilted or moved
in any direction. Then if the distant portal
were vertical, people in either of the places
would view right through the circle and
see the others in position relative to them-
selves. So Kingsley fell down, out of here,
and the inertia of his fall carried him hori-
zontal a bit into that other room, where the
direction of gravity changed abruptly and he
fell again downward, but which direction
was at right angles to yours.”

“Sounds right. But it looked almighty
funny to see the man and woman standing
against the wall surrounded by all sorts of
gear.”

“What kind of gear?”

The sergeant spread helpless hands.

“What can you tell in a split second of
time, especially when you’re completely
boffed?”

Murdoch nodded. “Did you notice any-

thing at all about the stuff?”

“Mostly a gleam of dials and pilot lights.”
“Now that’s something,” said Murdoch
exultantly. “Pilot lights mean electricity.
The thing must use electricity for power.
Can we turn off all the current in the neigh-
borhood and leave ’em stranded?”

“Might work.” said the sergeant. “I can
get the electric company to cooperate.”
“Good. And meanwhile I’ll start down
the highway to see what I can see.”

“Tell you what,” said the desk sergeant.
“We've got quite a bunch of forest rangers
here. They’re well-equipped with walky-
talkies. I’ll ask them to help, and we can
near canvass the neighborhood. As soon as
any of them sight something suspicious, they
can call in and we’ll collect the rest of them
and see what we can do.”

“Just find ’em,” said Murdoch. “We
don’t want to scare ’em off. It’s a ticklish
proposition trying to locate and catch some-
one who An not only follow you unseen but
can also be in Melbourne within the twinkle
of an eye.”

“Okay. You’re running the show. And
I’m glad of it.”

CHAPTER IX

The Man Who Could Not Go Right

A FTER Blair and Sally Ransome had
finished showing off what they could
do with their stolen machine, Kingsley was
taken upstairs. There had been a slight
argument about the pile of money, Sally in-
sisting that it be re-reversed at once, and
Blair telling her that it would have to lie
shipped somewhere else sooner or later
anyway, and that that would automatically
re-reverse it and make it valid.

Meanwhile, Kingsley sat in an easy chair
and looked around the room with interest.
It was the same room he had been in before,
but it looked so vitally different when re-
reversed. He preferred it that way because
he was used to it, although it was certain
that he could learn to live left-handedly.

It would be quite a problem, learning to
write from right to left with his left hand
so that other people could read his writing,
or he could write southpaw with his re-
versed right hand which was the more agile.

THE MOBIUS TRAIL

Yet he preferred not to go through years of
relearning the physical habits of a lifetime,
backward.

Blair continued to oversell Kingsley on
the mutual benefits of joining, and Kingsley
wanted no part of it.

Kingsley admitted the ease with which
Blair had amassed a small fortune and at
practically zero chance of being caught and
w'"h little effort. It would be so easy merely
to live in some pleasant place far from
authority and to bring to you all of the things
that go toward making life pleasant.

It tickled his fancy. It would have tickled
the fancy of any man, and it would have sent
many an otherwise honest man along the
trail of dishonesty because it was so simple
and so safe.

Yet Kingsley knew that sooner or later
the Law and Order side would catch up, or
possess similar machines, and that would
spell the end of the free take and have. A
criminal using a teleport would soon be
forced into the constant running that he
was in now, for authority could follow and
trail him with a similar or even improved
model, once the possibility were known.

So Kingsley said “No!’' and let it go at
that while Blair shrugged, knowing that
Kingsley would do as he was told or suffer
the consequences.

Periodically during the evening, Blair
fired up the equipment and watched the
police" stations in both small towns nearby.
In each things were running as normal. The
main offices of the Federal Bureau of Inves-
tigation were looked into, and found clear
of any but minor details.

But while the game of business-as-normal
was going on in official quarters to fool just
such a spying operation, the forest rangers
were combing the district carefully, and it
was only ten o’clock in the evening when one
of them found the stolen moving van in a
small ravine not more than a mile from
Blair’s hideaway.

He found it because he was a forest man,
and he knew that the trail of broken limbs
and crushed twigs meant the passage of some
large, hard body. The van was well-con-
cealed, but not well enough concealed to
hide it from the sight of a man standing
before it with anger in his mind.

The forest ranger lifted his walky-talky
and called to give the alarm.

A hundred men seeking the same thing
heard, and they began to congregate. It

129

could take hours, but they moved silently
through the woods and in the dark, walking
boldly because they knew their forests.
Along the highway came Walter Murdoch
in a borrowed automobile, to pause at the
local electric distribution station.

He dropped one officer and went on to
within a mile of Blair’s summer cottage
hideout. There he met the others and ex-
plained the situation to them. Then, as
everything was clear, Murdoch took charge.

He called the distributing station, and the
attendant pulled the main switch.

Every light in the district went out. . . .

B LAIR swore. He looked a bit worried,
but arose from the sofa where he had
been reading idly and went to the cellar
where he worked by hurricane lamp to
service an auxiliary power plant. With the
auxiliary plant running, the lights came on
again, but Blair was still worried.

He fired up the teleport and the lights
dimmed.

“What gives?” he demanded of Kingsley.
“That gear takes a lot of power. You
haven’t got the capacity in that auxiliary.”
Blair swore again and tried the teleport,
sending the plane of view down the road
toward the power distribution system. It
entered, and he saw the policeman and the
attendant beside the open power switch.

Blair cursed. His hand hit the switch that
thickened the connection so that teleporta-
tion would be possible — and the lights
dimmed while the auxiliary power plant
groaned with the unaccustomed load. There
came the pungent odor of too-hot electrical
machinery and as Blair snarled, he reached
forward but hit the silver plate with his
hand. “Not enough !” he gritted.

He whirled the plane of view back along
the road angrily until he caught sight of the
approaching body of men. They had spread
out in a vast circle and were closing in on
the house.

“Let’s get out of here !” exclaimed Sally.
“Not on foot,” grunted Blair.

A fuse blew in the auxiliary equipment.
Blair swore again, and replaced it. The
men were inside of the plane of view by
the time it was reestablished again. Blair
forgot them for the moment and sought over
the neighborhood for some means of escape.
On foot he would never make it, and so
long as the main source of power was off
he could go no further than perhaps a mile

130 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

without blowing fuses. Even so. the auxiliary
was groaning and straining and the odor of
burning insulation filled the cellar.

Then from the trees that surrounded the
house came a burst of flame. It led across
the clearing like a sword of light and it hit
the house and burned its way through the
metal wall. It erupted in the living room
with a shattering crash and a welter of
living flame. “Bazookas!” snarled Blair.

He cranked the dial frantically to return
the plane of view. From a cabinet he took
a rifle and loaded it. He found a bazooka
carrier and took a bead on him through the
teleport. He snapped the switch, the plate
opened long enough for Blair to fire.

He did not see the result because the
auxiliary generator blew another fuse.

Swearing luridly, Blair went over to the
machine and wired across the fuses with
heavy copper strips. He returned to the
machine, knowing that it was a matter of
time before they blew him to bits. Another
bazooka shell roared across the clearing and
tore the kitchenette to shreds above their
heads. Then Blair found the automobile that
Walter Murdoch had used, and laughed with
sardonic confidence.

Another bazooka shell hit the upper part
of the house. Apparently the attackers be-
lieved them to be upstairs.

“Hurry!” breathed Sally.

Blair nodded. He turned and grabbed
Kingsley by the manacled wrists and
dragged him toward the teleport.

Blair materialized the teleport just outside
of Murdoch’s car and handed Sally through
first. She held the rifle there while Kingsley
was shoved through and Sally held Joe at
bay until Blair came through to stand beside
her. Blair leaned back into the circle.

“Hurry!” cried Sally again.

Blair nodded, ran around the car and
jumped into the driver’s seat. He started off
down the road at a high speed just as the
open face of the teleport erupted flame and
a terrible roar that blew forward out of the
hole in space for fifty feet, cutting down
trees and scorching the very earth before it.

T HEN the circle was cut off abruptly,
but the roaring flame of the dynamited
hideaway still pillared a mile into the sky.

“That,” gritted Blair coldly, “will take
care of most of them ! They won’t find
enough to do ’em any good. What’s left of
them, that is. But,” he added with a sour

chuckle, “we've got the guy himself — and
he’ll build another one!”

They went down the road at a high rate of
speed, away from the wreckage they left
behind them. Blair grunted unhappily, and
Sally, from the far side of Kingsley from
Blair asked: “It is hard driving?”

“Not too bad. Something you can get
used to. Just a matter of using the left foot
for gas and brakes and the right foot for
the clutch. And staying on the wrong side
of the road.”

The car was mounting a hill now, and
going at a terrific pace. Far behind them,
men were bandaging themselves and calling
for aid to quench the forest fire that had
been started by the exploding dynamite.
Blair had made good his escape.

They came to the top of the hill and began
to round a curve, Sally looked back at the
flames mounting high in the distance.

“Nice fire,” she commented.

Blair took a quick glance behind him and
smiled grimly. And Joe Kingsley, with a
sudden convulsive movement, shouted :

“Look out — car coming!”

With the instinct born of years of driving,
Norman Blair yanked the wheel to the right.

But it was his right, and instead of hug-
ging the inside of the road where there was
a bit of cliff the car lurched, roared across
the road, and hit the restraining fence with
a splintering crash. Down the side of the
hill rocketed the car. It hit a boulder and
bounced. End over end it turned, then it
slewed sideward and rolled to the bottom
where it came to rest with all four wheels
in the air.

Kingsley, cushioned between Sally and
Blair, came to consciousness first.

They found him in the cold gray of dawn,
sitting between a cursing woman and a
groaning man, clumsily but effectively tied
with strips of cloth torn from Blair’s shirt.

“What happened?” asked Murdoch.

Kingsley explained, and as he finished,
Murdoch got the handcuff keys from the
desk sergeant and freed the scientist.

“But how did you accomplish this?” he
asked, pointing at the wrecked car.

“Blair messed everything up for every-
body,” said Kingsley, with a bitter laugh.
“We were teleported to the car, which re-
versed us left to right. I’ll have to build
another machine to get back to normal again.
But Blair,” he finished cheerfully, “never
did anything right in all his life!”

Billy stand a Jaatu f«N back again* tb« corridor vaU

A Child Is Crying

Scientists cringe in terror
as a small boy leads them
to a glimpse of the future l

H IS mother, who was brought to New
York with him, said, at the press
conference, “Billy is a very bright
boy. There isn't anything else we can teach
him.”

The school teacher, hack in Albuquerque,

131

By JOHN D. MacDONAUD

shuddered delicately, looking at the distant
stars, her head on the broad shoulder of the
manual training teacher. She said, "I’m sor-
ry, Joe, if I talk about him too much. It
seems as if everywhere I go and everything
I do, I can feel those eyes of his watching
me.”

Bain, the notorious pseudo-psychiatrist,
wrote an article loaded with cliches in which
he said. “Obviously the child is a mutation.
It remains to be seen whether or not his

132 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

peculiar talents are inheritable.” Bain men- work of Einstein. Now he is seven. You

tioned the proximity of Billy’s birthplace
to atomic experimentation.

Emanuel Gardensteen was enticed out of
his New Jersey study where he was putting
on paper his newest theories in symbolic
logic and mathematical physics. Gardensteen
spent five hours in a locked room with Billy.
At the end of the interview Gardensteen
emerged, biting his thin lips. He returned to
New Jersey, locked his house, and took a job
as a section hand repairing track on the
Pennsy Railroad. He refused to make a
statement to the press.

John Folmer spent four days getting per-
mission to go ninety feet down the corridor
of the Pentagon Building to talk to a man
who was entitled to wear five stars on his
uniform.

“Sit down, Folmer,” the general said. "All
this is slightly irregular.”

“It’s an irregular situation,” Folmer re-
torted. “I couldn’t trust Garrity and Hoskins
to relay my idea to you in its original form.”

The lean little man behind the mammoth
desk licked his lips slowly. “You infer that
my subordinates are either stupid or self-
seeking?”

Folmer lit a cigarette, keeping his move-
ments slow and unhurried. He grinned at
the little gray man. “Sir, suppose you let me
tell you what I’m thinking, and after you
have the story, then you can assess any blame
you feel is due.”

“Go ahead.”

“You have read about Billy Massner, Gen-
eral?”

T HE gray man snorted. “Read about
him! I’ve read about him, listened to
newscasts about him, watched his monstrous
little face in the newsreels. The devil with
him! A confounded freak.”

“But is he?” Folmer queried, his eyes
fixed on the general’s face.

“What do you mean, Folmer. Get to the
point.”

“Certainly. It is of no interest to you or
to me, General, to determine the reason for
the kid’s talents. What do we know about
those talents? Just this. The kid could read
and write and carry on a conversation when
he was thirteen months old. At two and a
half he was doing quadratic equations. At
four, completely on his cwn, he worked out
theories regarding non-Eculidian geometry
and theories of relativity that parallel the

read the Beach Report after the psychologists
got through with him. He can carry a con-
versation on mathematical concepts right on
over the heads of our best men who have
given their life to such things.

“The thing that happened to Gardensteen
is an example. The Beach Report states
that William Massner, age 7, is the most
completely rational being ever tested. The
factor of imagination is so small as not to
respond to any known test. The kid gets his
results by taking known and observed data
and exterpolating from that point, proving
his theories by exhaustive cross checks.”
“So what, Folmer? So what?” the general
snapped.

“What is our weapon of war, General?
The top weapon?” Folmer asked meaningly.
“The atom bomb, of course!”

“And the atom bomb was made possible
by the work of physicists in the realm of
pure theory. The men who made the first
bomb compare to Billy Massner the way you
and I compare to those men.”

“What are you getting at?” The general’s
tone showed curiosity and a little uneasiness.

“Just this, General. Billy Massner is a
national resource. He is our primary weapon
of offense and defense. As soon as our enemy
realize what we have in this kid, I have a
hunch they’ll have him killed. Inside that
head of his is our success in the war that’s
coming up one of these days.”

The general placed his small hard palm
on a yellow octagonal pencil and rolled it
back and forth on the surface of his huge
desk. The wrinkles between his eyebrows
deepened. He said gently, “Folmer, I’m sort
of out of my depth on this atomic business.
To me it’s just a new explosive — more ef-
fective than those in use up to this time.”
“And it will be continually improved,”
Folmer asserted. “You know what a very
small portion of the available energy is re-
leased right now. I’ll bet you this kid can
point out the way to release all the potential
energy.”

“Why haven’t you talked this over with
the head physicist?”

“But I have! He sneered at the kid at
first. I managed to get him an interview with
Billy. Now he ! s on my side. He’s too im-
pressed to be envious. The kid fed him a
production shortcut.”

The general shrugged in a tired way.
“What do we have to do?”

A CHILD IS CRYING 133

"I’ve talked to the boy’s mother and last
week I flew out and saw the father. They
only pretend to love the kid. He isn’t exactly
the sort of person you can love. They’ll
be willing to let me adopt him. They’ll sign
him over. It will cost enough dough out of
the special fund to give them a life income
of a thousand a month.”

“And then what?" the general wanted to
know.

“The kid is rational. I explain to him what
we want. If he does what we want him to
do, he gets anything in the world he wants.
Simple.”

The general straightened his shoulders.
“Okay, Folmer,” he snapped. “Get under
way. And make sure this monster of yours
is protected until we can get him behind
wire.”

Folmer stood up and smiled. “I took the
liberty of putting a guard on him, sir.”

“Good work! I'll be available to iron out
any trouble you run into. I’ll have a copy
disc of this conversation cut for your file. . . .”

I N SPITE of the general’s choice of
words, William Massner was not a mon-
ster. He was slightly smaller than average
for his age, fine-boned and with dark hair
and fair skin. His knuckles had the usual
grubby childhood look about them. At casual
glance he seemed a normal, decent-looking
youngster. The difference was in the abso-
lute immobility of his face. His eyes were
gray and level. Me had never been known,
since the age of six months, to show fear,
anger, surprise or joy.

After the brief ten minutes in court, John
Folmer brought Billy Massner to his hotel
room. Folmer sat on the bed and Billy sat
on a chair by the windows. John Folmer was
a slightly florid man of thirty, with pale
thinning hair and a soft bulge at the waist-
line. His hands were pink and well-kept.
Though he had conducted all manner of odd
negotiations with the confidence of an imagi-
native and thorough-going bureaucrat, the
quiet gray-eyed child gave him a feeling of
awe.

“Bill,” he said, “are you disappointed in
your parents for signing you away?”

“I made them uncomfortable. Their af-
fection was a pretense. It was an obvious
move for them to trade me for financial
security.” The boy’s voice had the flat pre-
cision of a slide rule.

Folmer tried to smile warmly. “Well, Bill,

at least the sideshow is over. We’ve gotten
you away from all the publicity agents. You
must have been geltting sick of that.”

“If you hadn’t stopped it, I would have,”
the boy stated.

Folmer stared. “How would you do that?”
“I have observed average children. I
would become an average child. They would
no longer be interested.”

“You could fake possessing their men-
tality?”

“It wouldn’t be difficult,” the boy said.
“At the present tune I am faking an intelli-
gence level as much lower than my true
level as the deviation between a normal child
and the level I am faking.”

Folmer uncomfortably avoided the level
gray eyes. He said heartily, “We’ll admit
you’re pretty . . . unusual, Bill. All the head
doctors have been trying to find out why and
how. But nobody has ever asked you for
your opinion. Why are you such a . . . devia-
tion from the norm, Bill?”

The boy looked at him for several mo-
tionless seconds. “There is nothing to be
gained by giving you that information, Fol-
mer. ”

Folmer stood up and walked over to the
boy. He glared down at him, his arm half
lifted. “Don’t get snippy with me, you little
freak !”

The level gray eyes met his. Folmer took
three jerky steps backward and sat down
awkwardly on the bed. “How did you do
that?” he gasped.

“I suggested it to you.”

“But—”

“I could just as well have suggested that
you open the window and step out.” And the
child added tonelessly, “We’re on the twenty-
first floor.”

Folmer got out a cigarette with shaking
hands and lit it, sucking the smoke deep into
his lungs. He tried to laugh. “Then why
didn’t you?”

“I don’t like unnecessary effort. I have
made a series of time-rhythm exterpolations.
Even though you are an unimportant man,
your death now would upset the rhythm of
one of the current inevitabilities, changing
the end result. With your death I would be
forced to isolate once again all variables and
re-establish the new time-rhythm to deter-
mine one segment: of the future.”

Folmer’s eyes bulged. “You can tell what
will happen in the future?”

“Of course. A variation of the statement

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

134

that the end pre-exists in the means. The
future pre-exists in the present, with all
variables subject to their own cyclical
rhythm. ”

“And my going out the window would
change the future?”

“One segment of it,” the boy replied.
Folmer’s hands shook. He looked down
at them. “Do — do you know when I’m sup-
posed to die?”

“If I tell you, the fact of your knowledge
will make as serious an upset in time-rhythm
as the fact of your stepping out the window.
Your probable future actions would be con-
ditioned by your knowledge.”

Folmer smiled tightly. “You’re hedging.
You don’t know the future.”

“You called me up here to tell me that we
are taking a plane today or tomorrow to a
secret research laboratory in Texas. We will
take that plane. In Texas the head physicist
at the laboratory will set up a morning con-
ference system whereby each staff member
will bring current research problems to a
roundtable meeting. I will answer the ques-
tions they put to me. No more than that. I
will not indicate any original line of research,
even though I will be asked to do so.”

“And why not ?”

"For the same reason that you are not
now dead on the pavement two hundred feet
below that window. Any interference with
time-rhythm means laborious re-calculations.
Since by a process of exterpolation I can
determine the future, my efforts would be
conditioned by my knowledge of that future ”

F OLMER tried to keep his voice steady
as he asked, "You could foresee military
attacks ?”

"Of course,” the child said.

“Do you know of any?”

“I do ”

“You will advise us of them so that we
can prepare, so that we can strike first ?” In
spite of himself Folmer- sounded eager.

"I will not.”. . .

Folmer took William Massner to Texas.
They landed at San Antonio where an army
light plane took them a hundred miles north-
west to the underground laboratories of the
government where able men kept themselves
from the thinking of the probable results of
their work. They were keen and sensitive
men, the best that the civilized world had yet
produced — but they worked with death, with

the musty odor of the grave like a gentle
touch against their lips. And they didn’t
stop to think. It was impossible to think of
consequences. Think of the job at hand.
Think of CM. Think in terms of unbelievable
temperatures, of the grotesque silhouette of
a man baked into the asphalt of Hiroshi-
ma. . . .

Billy was given a private suite, his needs
attended to by two WAC corporals who had
been given extensive security checks. The
two girls were frightened of the small boy.
They were frightened because he spent one
full hour each day doing a series of odd
physical exercises which he had worked out
for himself. But that didn’t frighten them as
much as the fact that during the rest of his
free time he sat absolutely motionless in a
chair, his eyes half closed, gazing at a blank
wall a few feet in front of him. At times he
seemed to be watching something, some
image against the flat white wall.

Folmer was unable to sleep. He didn’t eat
properly. He had told no one of his talk
with Billy at the New York hotel. His
knowledge ate at him. As his cheeks sagged
and turned sallow, as his plump body seemed
to wither, the fear in his eyes became deeper
and more set.

The research staff made more progress
during the first month of roundtable meet-
ings than they had during the entire previous
year. The younger men went about with an
air of excitement thinly covered by a rigid
control. The older men seemed to sink more
deeply into fortified battlements of the mind.
William Massner’s slow and deliberate an-
swers to involved questions resulted in the
scrapping of two complete lines of research
and a tremendous spurt of progress in other
lines.

Folmer could not forget the attack which
Billy had spoken of and, morever, could not
forget the fact that Billy knew when the
attack would occur. As Folmer lay rigid and
unsleeping during the long hours of night, he
felt that the silver snouts of mighty rockets
were screaming through the stratosphere,
arching and falling toward him, reaching out
to explode each separate molecule of his body
into a hot whiteness.

On the twenty-third of October, after
William Massner had been at the Research
Center for almost seven weeks, Folmer, made
bold by stiff drinks, sought out Burton Janks,
the Security Control Officer. They went to-
gether to a small soundproofed storeroom

A CHILD IS CRYING

and closed the door behind them. Janks was
a slim, tanned man with pale milky eyes,
dry brown hair and muscular hands. He
listened to Folmer’s story without any change
in expression.

When Folmer had finished, Janks said,
"I'm turning you over to Robertson for a
psycho.”

“Don’t he a fool, Burt! Give me a chance
to prove it first!” Folmer pleaded.

“Prove that nonsense! How?”

“Will you grant that if any part of my
story is true, all of it is true?”

Janks shrugged. “Sure.”

“Then do this one thing, Burt. The kid’ll
be coming out of conference in about ten
minutes. He’ll go along the big corridor and
take the elevator up to his apartment level.
Meet him in the corridor, walk up to him
and pretend that you are going to slap him.
Your guards will be with you. You’re the
only man who could try such a thing and get
away with it.”

Janks stretched lazily. “I’d enjoy batting
the little jerk's ears back. Maybe I won’t
pretend.”

Ten minutes later Janks stood beside
Folmer. They leaned against the wall of
the corridor. The door at the end opened
and Billy came out, closely followed by the
two young guards who were always with
him whenever he was out of his apartment.
Billy walked slowly and steadily, no expres-
sion on his small-boy face, no glint of light in
his ancient gray eyes.

J ANKS said, "Here goes,” and walked
out to intercept them. He nodded at
the guards, drew one hand back as though to
strike the hoy. For a second Janks stood
motionless. Then he went backward with
odd, wooden steps, his back slamming against
the corridor wall with a force that nearly
knocked him off his feet. Billy stared at him
for a moment without expression before con-
tinuing toward his apartment. The two
guards stood with their mouths open, staring
at Janks, and then hurried to their proper
position a few feet behind William Massner.

Janks was pale. He looked toward the
small figure of Billy, turned to Folmer and
said, “Come on. We’ll report to W. W.
Gates.”

Gates was an unhappy man. He had been
a reasonably competent physicist, blessed
with a charming personality and an ability
to handle administrative details. As a con-

135

sequence, he was no longer permitted to do
research, but had become the buffer between
the military and the research staff. His nomi-
nal position was head of research, but his
time was spent on reports in quadruplicate
and in soothing the battered sensibilities of
the research stuff. Gates loved his profession
and continually told himself that he was
helping it more by staying out of it. His
rationalization didn’t make him feel any bet-
ter. He looked like a bald John L. Lewis
without the eyebrows. And without the voice.
Gates talked in a plaintive squeak.

He sat very still and listened while Fol-
mer told the complete story and Janks sub-
stantiated it. Little heads of sweat appeared
on Gates’ upper lip in spite of the air condi-
tioning.

He said slowly, “If I had never sat in on
the conferences, I wouldn't believe it. Sci-
ence has believed that the future is the result
of an infinite progression of possibilities and
probabilities with a factor of complete ran-
domness. If you quoted him properly, Fol-
mer, this time-rhythm he spoke of indicates
some kind of a pattern in the randomness, so
that if you can isolate all the possibilities- and
probabilities and determine the past rhythm,
you can extend that pattern. It’s sort of a
statistical approach to metaphysics and quite
beyond our current science. I wish you
hadn’t told me.”

“I’ve got an idea, sir.” Folmer said. Both
men looked at him. “I've spent a long time
watching the kid. This reading the future
is okay for big stuff, but little things fool him.
Once he stumbled and fell against a door.
Another time one of the men accidentally
tramped on his foot. It hurt the kid.”

“What does that mean?” Janks said.

“It means that the kid can avoid big stuff
if he wants to, but not minor accidents. I
don’t think we can carry this much further.
The three of us right here are carrying the
ball. It's up to us. The future is locked up
in the kid’s mind. Now, here’s what we
do. . . .”

Corporal Alice Dentro was nervous. She
knew that she had to forget her personal
fears and carry out her orders. An order was
an order, wasn’t it ? She was in the army,
wasn’t she? After all, her superiors must
know what they’re doing.

She aimlessly dusted the furniture and
glanced toward the chair where William
Massner sat motionless, staring at a blank
wall. Her lips were tight, and little droplets

136 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

of cold sweat trickled down her body. She
moved constantly closer lo the boy. Five feet
from him, she reached into her blouse pocket
and pulled out the hypodermic. It slid easily
out of the aseptic plastic case. Quickly she
held it up to the light, depressed the plunger
until a drop of the clear liquid appeared at
at the needle tip.

A few feet closer. Now she could reach
out and touch him. He didn’t move. She
held herself very still, the needle poised. A
quick thrust. The boy jumped as the needle
slid through the fabric of his sleeve and pene-
trated the smooth skin. She pushed the
plunger before he twisted away. She backed
across the room, dropping the hypodermic.
It glistened against the thick pile of the
rug. She stood with her back against the
door. Billy tried to stand, but slumped back.
In a few seconds his chin dropped on his
chest, and he began to snore softly.

She glanced at her watch. With a trem-
bling hand she unlocked the door. Gates.
Janks and Folmer came in quickly and quiet-
ly. With them was Dr. Badloe from the in-
firmary. He carried a small black case. Janks
nodded at Alice Dentro. She slipped out into
the corridor and walked quickly away, her
shoulders squared. Behind her she heard
the click of the lock on the steel door.

A S THE results of the first drug went
away, Billy was given small increments
of a derivative of scopolamine. -They had
turned his chair around, loosened his cloth-
ing. Only one light shone in the apartment.
It was directed at his face. Dr. Badloe sat
near him, fingers on the boy’s pulse. Janks,
Gates and Folmer stood just outside the cir-
cle of light.

“He’s ready now,” Badloe said. “Just one
of you ask the questions.”

Both Janks and Folmer looked at Gates.
He nodded. In his thin, high voice he said,
“Billy, is it true that you can read the fu-
ture?”

The small lips twitched. In a small, sleepy
voice Billy said, “Yes. Not every aspect of
the future. Merely those segments of it which
interest me. The method is subject to a stand-
ard margin of error.”

“Can you explain that margin of error?”
Gates asked.

“Yes. One segment of the future concerns
my relationship with this organization. My
study of the future indicated that Folmer,
knowing my ability to read the future, would

interest others and that a successful attempt
would be made to render me powerless to
keep my readings to myself.”

The three men stared at each other in
sudden shock. Gates, with a quaver in his
voice said, “Then you knew that we would —
do this thing?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you anticipate it and avoid
it?”

“To do so would have been to alter the
future,” the sleepy voice responded.

“Are you a mutation caused by atomic
radiation ?”

"No.”

"What are you?”

“A direct evolutionary product. There are
precedents in history. The man who devised
the bow and arrow is a case in point. He
was necessary to humanity because otherwise
humanity would not have survived. He was
more capable than his fellows.” The boy’s
droning voice halted.

“Are we to assume then that your exis-
tence is necessary to the survival of humani-
ty?” Gates questioned.

“Yes. The factor missing from man’s in-
tellect is the ability to read the future. To do
so requires a more lucid mind than has
hitherto existed. The use of atomic energy
makes a knowledge of the future indispens-
able to survival. Thus evolution has provided
humanity with a new species of man able to
anticipate the results of his own actions.”

“Will we be attacked ?”

"Of course. And you will counterattack
again and again. As a result of this plan of
yours, you hope to be able to attack first, but
your military won’t credit my ability to see
into the future.”

“When will the attack come?” Gates
prodded.

“No less than forty, not more than fifty-
two days from today. Minor variables that
cannot be properly estimated give that margin
for error.”

“Who will win ?”

“Win? There will be no victory. That is
the essential point. In the past the wars be-
tween city states ceased because the city
states became too small as social units in a
shrinking world. Today a country is too
small a social unit. This war will be the ter-
minal point for inter-country warfare, as it
will dissolve all financial, linguistic and re-
ligious barriers.”

“What will the population of the world

a child is Crying

be when this war is over?” was Gates’ next
question.

“Between fifty and a hundred and fifty
millions. There will be an additional fifty
per cent shrinkage due to disease before
population begins to climb again.”

There was silence in the darkened room.
The hoy sat motionless, awaiting the next
query. Badloe had taken his fingers from
the boy’s pulse and sat with his face in his
hands.

ATES said slowly, “I don’t understand.
You spoke as though your type of in-
dividual has come into the world as an evo-
lutionary answer to atomics. If this war will
happen, in what sense are you saving man-
kind ?”

“My influence is zero at this point,” was
the boy’s answer. “I will be ready when the
war is over. I will survive it, because I can
anticipate the precautions to be taken. After
it is over the ability to read the future will
keep mankind from branching off into a
repetition of militarism and fear. I have no
part in this conflict.”

“But you have improved our techniques !”
Gates protested.

“I have increased your ability to destroy,”
Billy corrected him. “Were I to increase it
further, you would be enabled to make the
earth completely uninhabitable.”

“Then your work is through?”

“Obviously. The result of the drug you
have administered to me will be to impair
the use of my intellect. I will be sent away.
My abilities will return in sufficient time to
enable me to survive.”

Gates’ voice became a whisper. “Are there
others like you?”

“I estimate that there are at least twenty
in the world today. Obviously many have
managed to conceal their gifts. The oldest
should be not more than nine. They are

137

scattered all over the earth. They all have an
excellent chance of survival. Thirty years
from now there will be more than a thousand
of us.”

Gates glanced over at Janks, saw the fear
and the obvious question. Folmer had the
same expression cm his face. With a voice
that had in it a small touch of madness,
Gates said, “What is the future of those of
us in this room? Will we survive?”

“I have not explored the related proba-
bilities. I knew in New York that it was
necessary for Folmer to survive to bring me
here and to tell you of my abilities. It can
be calculated.”

“Now?”

“Give me thirty seconds.”

Again the room was silent. Badloe had
lifted his face, his eyes naked with fear.
Janks shifted uneasily. Folmer stood, barely
breathing. Gates twisted his fingers together.
The seconds ticked by. Four men waited for
the word of death or life.

Billy Massner licked his lips. “Not one of
you will live more than three months from
this date.” It was a flat, calm statement.
Badloe made a sound in his throat.

“He’s crazy!” Janks snarled.

They wanted to believe Janks. They had to
believe the boy.

Gates whispered, “How will we die?”

They watched the small-boy face. Slowly
the impassivity of it melted away. The gray
eyes opened and they were not the dead gray
eyes the men had grown accustomed to. They
were the frightened eyes of boyhood. There
was fear on the small face. Fear and inde-
cision.

The voice had lost its flat and deadly calm.

“Who are you?” the boy asked, close to
tears. “What do you want? What are you
doing to me? I want to go home!”

In the darkened room four men stood and
watched a small boy cry.

C( Wjxjoh $d.mt& Jictlon £vsud!

THE WEAPON SHOPS OF ISHER

1 1 i

A Full-Length Novel

By A. E. VAN VOGT

COMPLETE IN OUR NEXT ISSUE!

mm

The last man on Earth

sat alone in a room

HERE is a sweet little horror story
that is only two sentences long :

" The last man on Earth sat alone
in a room. There was a knock on the
door. ..."

Two sentences and an ellipsis of three
dots. The horror, of course, isn’t in the two
sentences at all ; it’s in the ellipsis, the impli-
cation : what knocked at the door? Faced
with the unknown, the human mind supplies
something vaguely horrible.

But it wasn’t horrible, really.

The last man on Earth — or in the uni-
verse, for that matter — sat alone in a room.

It was a rather peculiar room. He’d just
noticed how peculiar it was and he’d been
studying out the reason for its peculiarity.
His conclusion didn’t horrify him, but it an-
noyed him.

Walter Phelan, who had been associate
professor of anthropology at Nathan Uni-
versity up until the time two days ago when
Nathan University had ceased to exist, was
not a man who horrified easily. Not that
Walter Phelan was a heroic figure, by any
wild stretch of the imagination. He was
slight of stature and mild of disposition. He
wasn’t much to look at, and he knew it.

138

KNOCK

Not that his appearance worried him now.
Right now, in fact, there wasn’t much feeling
in him. Abstractedly, he knew that two days
ago, within the space of an hour, the human
race had been destroyed, except for him and,
somewhere, a woman — one woman. And
that was a fact which didn’t concern Walter
Phelan in the slightest degree. He’d proba-
bly never see her and didn’t care too much
if lie didn’t.

Women just hadn’t been a factor in Wal-
ter’s life since Martha had died a year and
a half ago. Not that Martha hadn’t been a
good wife — albeit a bit on the bossy side.
Yes, he’d loved Martha, in a deep, quiet way.
He was only forty now. and he’d been only
thirty-eight when Martha had died, but —
well — he just hadn't thought about women
since then. His life had been his books, the
ones he read and the ones he wrote. Now
there wasn’t any point in writing books, but
he had the rest of his life to spend in read-
ing them.

True, company would be nice, but he’d get
along without it. Maybe after a while, he’d
get so he’d enjoy the occasional company of
one of the Zan, although that was a bit diffi-
cult to imagine. Their thinking was so alien
to his that there seemed no common ground
for discussion, intelligent though they were,
in a way.

An ant is intelligent, in a way, but no man
ever established communication with an ant.
He thought of the Zan, somehow, as super-
ants, although they didn’t look like ants, and
he had a hunch that the Zan regarded the
human race as the human race had regarded
ordinary ants. Certainly what they’d done
to Earth had been what men did to ant hills —
and it had been done much more efficiently.

B UT they had given him plenty of books.

They’d been nice about that, as soon
as he had told them what he wanted, and he
had told them that the moment he had
learned that he was destined to spend the
rest of his life alone in this room. The rest
of his life, or as the Zan had quaintly ex-
pressed it, for-ev-er. Even a brilliant mind —
and the Zan obviously had brilliant minds —
has its idiosyncracies. The Zan had learned
to speak Terrestrial English in a matter of
hours but they persisted in separating sylla-
bles. But we disgress.

There was a knock on the door.

You’ve got it all now, except the three
dots, the ellipsis, and I’m going to fill that in

139

and show you that it wasn’t horrible at all.

Walter Phelan called out, “Come in,” and
the door opened. It was, of course, only a
Zan. It looked exactly like the other Zan ;
if there was any way of telling one of them
from another, Walter hadn’t found it. It was
about four feet tall and it looked like nothing
on earth — nothing, that is, that had been
on Earth until the Zan came there.

Walter said, “Hello, George.” When he’d
learned that none of them had names he de-
cided to call them all George, and the Zan
didn’t seem to mind.

This one said, “Hel-lo, Wal-ter.” That
was ritual ; the knock on the door and the
greetings. Walter waited.

“Point one,” said the Zan. “You will
please hence-forth sit with your chair turned
the other way.”

Walter said, “I thought so, George. That
plain wall is transparent from the other side,
isn’t it?”

“It is trans-par-ent.”

“Just what I thought. I’m in a zoo.
Right ?”

“That is right.”

Walter sighed. “I knew it. That plain,
blank wall, without a single piece of furni-
ture against it. And made of something dif-
ferent from the other walls. If I persist in
sitting with my back to it, what then? You
will kill me? — I ask hopefully.”

“We will take a-way your books.”
“You’ve got me there, George. AH right,
I’ll face the other way when I sit and read.
How many other animals besides me are in
this zoo of yours?”

“Two hun-dred and six-teen.”

Walter shook his head. “Not complete,
George. Even a bush league zoo can beat
that — could beat that, I mean, if there were
any bush league zoos left. Did you just pick
at random ?”

“Ran-dom sam-ples, yes. All spe-cies
would have been too man-y. Male and fe-
male each of one hun-dred and eight kinds.”
“What do you feed them? The carnivor-
ous ones, I mean.”

“We make food. Syn-thet-ic.”

“Smart,” said Walter. ’’And the flora?
You got a collection of that, too?”

“Flo-ra was not hurt by vi-bra-tions. It
is all still grow-ing.”

“Nice for the flora,” said Walter. “You
weren’t as hard on it, then, as you were on
the fauna. Well, George, you started out
with ‘point one.’ I deduce there is a point

THRILLING WONDER STORIES

140

two kicking around somewhere. What is
it?”

“Some-thing we do not un-der-stand.
Two of the oth-er a-ni-tnals sleep and do not
wake? They are cold.”

"It happens in the best regulated zoos,
George,” Walter Phelan said. "Probably
not a thing wrong with them except that
they’re dead.”

“Dead ? That means stopped. But noth-
ing stopped them. Each was a-lone.”

Walter stared at the Zan. “Do you mean,
George, you don’t know what natural death
is?”

"Death is when a be-ing is killed, stopped
from liv-ing.”

Walter Phelan blinked. "How old are
you, George?” he asked.

"Six-teen — you would not know the word.
Your pla-net went a-round your sun a-bout
sev-en thou-sand times. I am still young.”

Walter whistled softly. “A babe in arms,”
he said. He thought hard a moment. "Look,
George,” he said, “you’ve got something to
learn about this planet you’re on. There’s
a guy here who doesn’t hang around where
you come from. An old man with a beard
and a scythe and an hour-glass. Your vi-
brations didn’t kill him.”

“What is he?”

"Call him the Grim Reaper, George. Old
Man Death. Our people and animals live
until somebody — Old Man Death — stops
them ticking.”

“He stopped the two crea-tures? He will
stop more?”

W ALTER opened his mouth to an-
swer, and then closed it again. Some-
thing in the Zan’s voice indicated that there
would be a worried frown on his face, if he
had had a face recognizable as such.

“How about taking me to these animals
who won’t wake up?” Walter asked. “Is
that against the rules?”

“Come,” said the Zan.

That had been the afternoon of the second
day. It was the next morning that the Zan
came back, several of them. They began to
move Walter Phelan’s books and furniture.
When they’d finished that, they moved him.
He found himself in a much larger room a
hundred yards away.

He sat and waited and this time, too,
when there was a knock on the door, he
knew what was coming and politely stood up.
A Zan opened the door and stood aside. A

woman entered.

Walter bowed slightly. "Walter Phelan,"
he said, “in case George didn’t tell you my
name. George tries to be polite, but he
doesn’t know all of our ways.”

The woman seemed calm ; he was glad to
notice that. She said, "My name is Grace
Evans, Mr. Phelan. What’s this all about?
Why did they bring me here ?”

Walter was studying her as she talked.
She was tall, fully as tall as he, and well-
proportioned. She looked to be somewhere
in her early thirties, about the age Martha
had been. She had the same calm confidence
about her that he’d always liked about Mar-
tha, even though it had contrasted with his
own easy-going informality. In fact, he
thought she looked quite a bit like Martha.

“I think I know why they brought you
here, but let’s go back a bit,” he said. “Do
you know just what has happened other-
wise?”

“You mean that they’ve — killed every-

_ -j if

one r

“Yes. Please sit down. You know how
they accomplished it?”

She sank into a comfortable chair nearby.
“No,” she said, "I don’t know just how.
Not that it matters, does it?”

"Not a lot. But here’s the story— what I
know of it, from getting one of them to talk,
and from piecing things together. There isn’t
a great number of them — here, anyway. I
don’t know how numerous a race they are
where they came from and I don’t know
where that is, but I’d guess it’s outside the
Solar System. You’ve seen the space ship
they came in?”

“Yes. It’s as big as a mountain.”

"Almost. Well, it has equipment for emit-
ting some sort of a vibration — they call it
that, in our language, but I imagine it’s more
like a radio wave than a sound vibration —
that destroys all animal life. It — the ship it-
self — is insulated against the vibration. I
don’t know whether its range is big enough
to kill off the whole planet at once, or wheth-
er they flew in circles around the earth, send-
ing out the vibratory waves. But it killed
everybody and everything instantly and, I
hope, painlessly. The only reason we, and
the other two-hundred-odd animals in this
zoo, weren’t killed was because we were in-
side the ship. We’d been picked up as speci-
mens. You do know this is a zoo, don’t
you ?”

“I — I suspected it.”

KNOCK

"The front walls are transparent from the
outside. The Zan were pretty clever at fix-
ing up the inside of each cubicle to match
the natural habitat of the creature it con-
tains. These cubicles, such as the one we’re
in, are of plastic, and they’ve got a machine
that makes one in about ten minutes. If
Earth had had a machine and a process like
that, there wouldn’t have been any housing
shortage. Well, there isn’t any housing
shortage now, anyway. And I imagine that
the human race — specifically you and I — can
stop worrying about the A-bomb and the
next war. The Zan certainly solved a lot of
problems for us.”

RACE EVANS smiled faintly. “An-
other case where the operation was
successful, but the patient died. Things were
in an awful mess. Do you remember being
captured ? I don’t. I went to sleep one night
and woke up in a cage on the space ship*,”

“I don’t remember either,” Walter said.
“My hunch is that they used the vibratory
waves at low intensity first, just enough to
knock us all out. Then they cruised around,
picking up samples more or less at random
for their zoo. After they had as many as
they wanted, or as many as they had space
in the ship to hold, they turned on the juice
all the way. And that was that. It wasn’t
until yesterday they knew they’d made a
mistake and had underestimated us. They
thought we were immortal, as they are.”
“That we were — what?”

“They can be killed, but they don’t know
what natural death is. They didn’t, anyway,
until yesterday. Two of us died yesterday.”
“Two of— Oh!”

“Yes, two of us animals in their zoo. One
was a snake and one was a duck. Two
species gone irrevocably. And by the Zan’s
way of figuring time, the remaining member
of each species is going to live only a few
minutes, anyway. They figured they had
permanent specimens.”

“You mean they didn’t realize what short-
lived creatures we are?”

“That’s right,” Walter said. “One of
them is young at seven thousand years, he
told me. They’re bi-sexaul themselves, in-
cidentally, but they probably breed once
every ten thousand years or thereabouts.
When they learned yesterday how ridicu-
lously short a life expectancy we terrestrial
animals have, they were probably shocked
to the core — if they have cores. At any rate

141

they decided to reorganize their zoo — two
by two instead of one by one. They figure
well last longer collectively if not individu-
ally.”

“Oh!” Grace Evans stood up, and there
was a faint flush on her face. “If you think —
If they think — ” She turned toward the
door.

“It’ll be locked,” Walter Phelan said
calmly. “But don’t worry. Maybe they
think, but I don’t think. You needn’t even
tell me you wouldn’t have me if I was the
last man on Earth ; it would be corny under
the circumstances. ”

“But are they going to keep us locked up
together in this one little room ?”

“It isn’t so little ; we’ll get by. I can sleep
quite comfortably in one of these overstuffed
chairs. And don’t think I don’t agree with
you perfectly, my dear. All personal con-
siderations aside, the least favor we can do
the human race is to let it end with us and
not be perpetuated for exhibition in a zoo.”

She said “Thank you,” almost inaudibly,
and the flush receded from her cheeks.
There was anger in her eyes, but Walter
knew that it wasn’t anger at him. With her
eyes sparkling like that, she looked a lot like
Martha, he thought.

He smiled at her and said, “Otherwise — ”

She started out of her chair, and for an
instant he thought she was going to come
over and slap him. Then she sank back
wearily. “If you were a man, you’d be think-
ing of some way to — They can be killed,
you said?” Her voice was bitter.

“The Zan? Oh, certainly. I’ve been
studying them. They look horribly different
from us, but I think they have about the
same metabolism we have, the same type of
circulatory system, and probably the same
type of digestive system. I think that any-
thing that would kill one of us would kill one
of them.”

“But you said — ”

“Oh, there are. differences, of course.
Whatever factor it is in man that ages him,
they don’t have. Or else they have some
gland that man doesn’t have, something
that renews cells.”

S HE had forgotten her anger now. She
leaned forward eagerly. She said, “I
think that’s right. And I don’t think they
feel pain.”

“I was hoping that. But what makes you
think so, my dear?”

142 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

"I stretched a piece of wire that I found away outside. He grinned. “It might work,
in the desk on my cubicle across the door Martha,” he said.

so my Zan would fall over it. He did, and
the wire cut his leg.”

“Did he bleed red?”

“Yes, but it didn’t seem to annoy him.
He didn’t get mad about it ; didn’t even men-
tion it. When he came back the next time,
a few hours later, the cut was gone. Well,
almost gone. I could see just enough of a
trace of it to be sure it was the same Zan.”
Walter Phelan nodded slowly.

“He wouldn’t get angry, of course,” he
said. “They’re emotionless. Maybe, if we
killed one, they wouldn’t even punish us.
But it wouldn’t do any good. They’d just
give us our food through a trap door and
treat us as men would have treated a zoo
animal that had killed a keeper. They’d just
see that he didn’t have a crack at any more
keepers.”

“How many of them are there?” she
asked.

“About two hundred, 1 think, in this par-
ticular space ship. But undoubtedly there are
many more where they came from. I have a
hunch this is just an advance guard, sent to
clear off this planet and make it safe for Zan
occupancy.”

“They did a good — ”

T HERE was a knock at the door, and
Walter Phelan called out, “Come in.”
A Zan stood in the doorway.

“Hello, George,” said Walter.

“Hel-lo, Wal-ter,” said the Zan.

It may or may not have been the same
Zan, but it was always the same ritual.
"What’s on your mind?” Walter asked.
“An-oth-er crea-ture sleeps and will not
wake. A small fur-ry one called a wea-sel.”
Walter shrugged.

“It happens, George. Old Man Death. I
told you about him.”

“And worse. A Zan has died. This morn-
ing.

“Is that worse?” Walter looked at him
blandly. "Well, George, you’ll have to get
used to it, if you’re going to stay around
here.”

The Zan said nothing. It stood there.
Finally Walter said, “Well?”

"A-bout wea-sel. You ad-vise same?”
Walter shrugged again. “Probably won’t
do any good. But sure, why not?”

The Zan left.

Walter could hear his footsteps dying

"Mar — My name is Grace, Mr. Phelan.
What might work?”

"My name is Walter, Grace. You might
as well get used to it. You know, Grace,
you do remind me a lot of Martha. She was
my wife. She died a couple of years ago.”
"I’m sorry,” said Grace. "But what
might work? What were you talking about
to the Zan?”

“We’ll know tomorrow,” Walter said.
And she couldn’t get another word out of
him.

That was the fourth day of the stay of the
Zan.

The next was the last.

It was nearly noon when one of the Zan
came. After the ritual, he stood in the door-
way, looking more alien than ever. It would
be interesting to describe him for you, but
there aren’t words.

He said. “We go. Our coun-cil met and
de-cid-ed.”

"Another of you died?”

"Last night. This is pla-net of death.”
Walter nodded. “You did your share.
You’re leaving two hundred and thirteen
creatures alive, out of quite a few billion.
Don’t hurry back.”

“Is there an-y-thing we can do?”

“Yes. You can hurry. And you can leave
our door unlocked, but not the others. We’ll
take care of the others.”

Something clicked on the door ; the Zan
left.

Grace Evans was standing, her eyes shin-
ing.

She asked, “What—? How—?”

"Wait,” cautioned Walter. “Let’s hear
them blast off. It’s a sound I want to re-
member.”

The sound came within minutes, and Wal-
ter Phelan, realizing how rigidly he’d been
holding himself, relaxed in his chair.

“There was a snake in the Garden of
Eden, too, Grace, and it got us in trouble,”
he said musingly. "But this one made up
for it. I mean the mate of the snake that
died day before yesterday. It was a rattle-
snake.”

“You mean it killed the two Zan who
died? But — ”

Walter nodded. "They were babes in the
woods here. When they took me to look at
the first creatures who ‘were asleep and
wouldn’t wake up,’ and I saw that one of

KNOCK 143

them was a rattler, I had an idea, Grace.
Just maybe, I thought, poison creatures were
a development peculiar to Earth and the Zan
wouldn’t know about them. And, too, maybe
their metabolism was enough like ours so
that the poison would kill them. Anyway,
I had nothing to lose trying. And both
maybes turned out to be right.”

“How did you get the snake to — ”

Walter Phelan grinned. Pie said, “I told
them what affection was. They didn’t know.
They were interested, I found, in preserving
the remaining one of each species as long as
possible, to study the picture atul record it
before it died. I told them it would die im-
mediately because of the loss of its mate,
unless it had affection and petting — con-
stantly. I showed them how with the duck.
Luckily it was a tame one, and I held it
against my chest and petted it a while to
show them. Then I let them take over with
it — and the rattlesnake.”

H lf STOOD up and stretched, and then
sat down again more comfortably.
“Well, we've got a world to plan,” he
said. “We’ll have to let the animals out
of the ark, and that will take some thinking
and deciding. The herbivorous wild ones
we can let go right away. The domestic
ones, we’ll do better to keep and take charge
of ; we’ll need them. But the carnivora —

Well, we’ll have to decide. But I’m afraid
it’s got to be thumbs down.”

He looked at her. “And the human race.
We’ve got to make a decision about that. A
pretty important one.”

Her face was getting a little pink again,
as it had yesterday ; she sat rigidly in her
chair.

“No!” she said.

He didn’t seem to have heard her. “It’s
been a nice race, even if nobody won it,” he
said. “It’ll be starting over again now, and
it may go backward for a while until it gets
its breath, but we can gather books for it and
keep most of its knowledge intact, the im-
portant things anyway. We can — ”

He broke off as she got up and started
for the door. Just the way his Martha would
have acted, he thought, back in the days
when he was courting her, before they were
married.

He said, “Think it over, my dear, and
take your time. But come back.”

The door slammed. He sat waiting, think-
ing out all the things there were to do, once
he started, but in no hurry to start them;
and after a while he heard her hesitant foot-
steps coming bade

He smiled a little. See? It wasn’t horrible,
really.

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room.
There was a knock on the door. . .

Sell

oo i Sllcliemi&l

SCIENTISTS, from the days of alchemy on, have occasionally and
with the aid of many different elaborate devices managed to drag
from sea water some tiny drams of the gold it contains. However,
it has generally been rated a task too tedious and difficult to be worth
all the time and effort that it requires.

But recently 17-year-old George Camamis, a New Brunswick,
New Jersey, high school senior, decided to have a crack at it himself.
He added hydorchloric acid to several gallons of sea water and then
put in a gram of barium chloride.

After allowing a precipitate to form he poured off the water. First
neutralizing this water with sodium hydroxide and another pinch of barium chloride,
he repeated the process, collected the second precipitate, washed it with distilled water
and dried it.

After heating it with lead and borax, he crushed the resultant glass bead and, using
mercury to form an amalgam, evaporated the mercury and found his gold — coating the
inside of his crucible.

Gold, once again, is where you find it ! — Carter Sprague.

Across illimitable parsecs of space come the glowing ones in quest of

FUZZY HEAD

umt * i rk

» m

Through Hm window he uw a radiant man and woman sweeping across the lawn

W E ARRIVED in the golden au-
tumn. We drove up through the
russet leaves to the great house
and descended lightly to the dew-drenched
earth.

Celia darted on ahead of me, her pale
body a diaphanous flowing. I moved more
slowly, my thoughts like muted chimes as I

pondered the meaning of what had hap-
pened within the high, dark walls of the
house.

For the first time on Earth a human child
had been born who could summon us ! He
was eight years old now, but wise beyond his
years and he had summoned us deliberately
across space. He had sat, hunched and

By FRANK BELKNAP LONG

144

FUZZY HEAD

shivering', in his own small room, staring
up at the far-flung constellations. Then,
abruptly, he had thrown out his arms and
called to us.

Celia could scarcely believe it even now.
She had always wanted a child of her own,
but we had despaired of ever finding one.

. Then this call, this unbelievable summons !
A sudden warmth and beauty, a child’s
laughter rippling through space. Spanning
aeons, crossing dark barriers, as miraculous

the birth of a sun in utter blackness.

Celia had turned, and was staring back at
me. She was shivering. Swiftly I darted to
.her side and took her burning hands in mine.

“Do not be afraid,” I said. “He needs us
as much as we need him. Like calls to like,
you know !”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. He used the Illth formula!

“But how did he get out of his space ? How
did he know we would come if he called?”
Celia’s body was burning brightly now. Her
eyes were veiled and her lips had opened like
the petals of a flower.

“The very different ones would know,” I
said. “Johnny was never quite human and
now—”

“Now he’s ready ?”

“Yes!”

* * * * *

The little boy turned and looked at his
mother. He had -a strangely peaked face, the
forehead inclined to broadness, the eyes wide
and piercing and very blue.

“Johnny, what are you doing up here all
alone in the dark ? We’ve been looking every-
where for you ! You didn’t touch your sup-
per. What’s the matter, darling? What’s
wrong?”

“I wasn’t hungry !” he said.

“And last night you didn’t sleep! You
tossed and twisted — Oh, Johnny !”

T HE WOMAN fell to her knees beside
her son and drew him into her arms. She
ran her fingers through his hair.

“You’re not well, Johnny!”

“Go away!”

Johnny wriggled out of his mother’s em-
brace and ran to the window. He stood look-
ing up at the pale stars, his lips quivering.

“Why don’t they come?” he said in choked
tones. Tears welled in his eyes, ran down his
cheeks. “I can’t stand living here any longer !
They must come ! They must!”

145

Downstairs in the library Johnny’s father
knocked the dottle from his pipe and walked
to the window. It was a clear, star speckled
night, and the dew-drenched grass seemed to
breathe an air of freshness into the room.

Stephen Ambler’s mind went back across
the years.

He saw again the terrible, mushrooming
shape of flame, so bright that, when he shut
his eyes, it stabbed through his eyelids into
his brain.

Shutting his eyes high above Bikini Atoll,
hearing only the drone of his own plane, hr
had truly believed that the little primitive
minds of men had wrought a miracle.

But no miracle could compare with the one
that he had wrought one year later — the
bright, incredible miracle of Johnny !

His memory grew sharper. In his mind’s
gaze he was walking with Johnny along a
shining beach, the curving pink shells of the
sea at his feet.

Johnny was staring at the white surf
curving back. Johnny was in the autumn of
his sixth year, his clear, childish eyes bright
with excitement. Johnny stood staring at the
surf and the wheeling gulls, and a horse-shoe
crab half buried in the sand. Johnny kept
tugging and pointing.

“The waves are tired, Daddy! The waves
are falling back and dying ! They don’t want
to come in !”

“Johnny, whatever gave you such an idea?
The sea is restless and full of energy. It’s
big — so big that it covers four-fifths of the
globe. Or is it two-thirds? Anyhow, it goes
on and on. You needn’t believe me. Ask any
oceanographer ! ”

“No, Daddy! It’s dying. So are you and
Mommy, and Uncle Henry and Aunt Katie!
And everybody ! But I’m not ! I’m new — and
I’ll never die!”

Yes, Johnny was new. But so were all
children. It seemed incredible that Johnny
could be so aware of the strong, bright flood
of life in himself. The strength of childhood
could make even the sea seem old and tired,
perhaps. But what other little boy of six
could express the inexpressible with the self-
conscious artistry of a Dali ?

A child’s imagination could be winged and
white and fearful. You could no more curb it
than you could clamp a bit on Pegasus. But
behind Johnny’s unwashed ears were mur-
murs stranger than any heard in a sea shell.

The miracle of Johnny !

146 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

The door opened and Johnny’s mother remember that Fuzzy Head isn’t a baby doll,
came into the library. He’s a little old man doll, more of a char-

" Stephen, I’ve got to talk to you! Its
about Johnny.”

Johnny’s father turned slowly, the wonder
of Johnny in retrospect bowing to a slightly
older Johnny in the flesh. Memory fell away,
and reality took its place, so that Stephen was
no longer smiling when he met his wife’s
troubled gaze.

"Well, what is it? Is Johnny still sulk-
ing?”

Helen Ambler nodded. Stephen noticed
that she stood very still and that her hands
were tightly clenched.

“Stephen, I’m worried ! He says the
strangest things!”

"Does he now? What, for instance?”

"That people are coming for him. Total
strangers. Coming to take him away from
us.”

“He’s living in a world of fantasy,”
Stephen said, scowling. “All children do,
more or less.”

“Stephen, it isn’t only that. He keeps
talking to Fuzzy Head, making a confidant
of Fuzzy Head. When I go to him he pushes
me away. But nothing’s too good for that
ridiculous doll. It’s horrible, but Fve got to
say it, Stephen. Johnny’s developing a fix-
ation!”

“You mean a psychiatrist would call it a
fixation,” Stephen said, a trifle impatiently.
"They put everything in neat, dustless pack-
ages, lock the closet door and throw away
the key. But we’re not putting Johnny in a
dark closet.”

S TEPHEN stuffed tobacco in his pipe
and searched in his pocket for a match.
He couldn’t find one.

“Johnny’s a member of a family group,
sure,” he went on. “But he’s also a very
eager little boy starting out on a great ad-
venture. It’s natural for a child to stop at
odd crossways and ask advice. Fuzzy Head
just happens to be standing at an important
crossroad in Johnny’s life.”

"But he’s had that doll for seven years
now, Stephen ! You said yourself it was sissi-
fied for a boy of eight to play with dolls.
You never did. Have you changed your
mind ?’’

“No . . . I’m not too happy about that,”
Stephen admitted. “Every father wants his
son to be a real he-guy. But you’ve got to

acter toy than a doll.”

“I see. And do you approve of the way
Fuzzy Head's developing Johnny’s charac-
ter?”

“Johnny has character!” Stephen retorted.
“That’s the important thing. Do you wan^
our son to be a rubber stamp?”

“Naturally not. But a two-headed calf
would have character too. A great deal of
character!” ^

Stephen was shocked. That the mother of
his son should be capable of drawing such a
parallel — and deriving emotional satisfactions
from it — seemed incredible, almost mon-*
strous, to him. What he failed to realize was
the depth of his wife’s capacity for self-
torment and the strength of her desire to jolt
him out of his complacency.

As he stared at her, aghast, she said an
even more shocking thing: “Sometimes I
think Johnny’s not even human. He can
be as cold and distant as one of those little
clay figures made by African witch doctors !”

Her face grew suddenly anguished.
“Stephen, if I didn’t love him so — ”

Stephen’s features softened. He put his
arm about his wife and gave her an affection-
ate squeeze. To clear the air he said jest-
ingly: “Well, now, maybe you’ve hit on
something. He was born a year after Bikini
and — I was there!”

Helen Ambler stared at her husband, her
eyes widening. "Stephen, what do you
mean?”

He had not thought that she would take
him seriously. In his anxiety to reassure her
he made the mistake of taking too much for
granted. He knew that she despised the im-
aginative stories of interplanetary travel,
atomic power and future science that he liked
to read and ponder.

So he made the mistake of assuming that,
if he gave those stories their due, and a little
more than their due, her antagonism would
become a shield, insulating and protecting
her.

"You have a psychological block, but you
can overcome it,” he said. "Next time you
dust my books look inside the ones you’re
always putting back upside down. They con-
tain a master plan for changing the genes of
human inheritance.”

"A master plan?”

Stephen nodded. "The brightest crop of

FUZZY

post-Wellsian imaginative science writers are
convinced that if you bombard one, or both
parents of a child, with atomic radiations well
in advance of the event you’re likely to get
a little stranger in the house. A mutant child
who isn’t quite human. And, if you want to
be morbid about it — a gnome, of a sort. A
small weird guest !”

“Stephen !”

“Oh, so far it’s never happened, except to
fruit flies. But I was pretty close to Bikini
Atoll. I was flying high in a plane the Navy
supplied without realizing what they might
be letting me in for. I was a bachelor then,
of course.’’

He smiled. “Some of my favorite authors
believe that kids like our Johnny belong to
another race entirely. They’re born human
or almost human, but they grow out of it.
Super-kids who grow up to become multi-
dimensional, all shining cubes and bright
impossible angles. They’re only human in the
caterpillar stage of their development.”
Johnny’s mother gasped wildly. “How can
you even think such things! Horrible!”

A T THIS, Stephen made one last heroic
attempt to convince his wife that he
had spoken with his tongue in his cheek.
“The Hindus believe that man was made by
Prajapati, after many efforts in which the
experimental beings did not harmonize with
their environment. Maybe somebody like
Prajapati is trying to make a race of super-
beings, and our Johnny’s just an experi-
ment.”

Helen Ambler did not smile.

Stephen’s lips tightened and all the levity
ebbed from his stare. “You asked me how
I can think such things. I don’t think them.
But you do, subconsciously. Helen, listen
to me. All kids become little strangers at
times. If their parents love them, it doesn't
matter. Just being a child is a frightful nerv-
ous strain on the child itself. Think back to
your own childhood. When you first read
the story of the Gorgons, with their snaky
hair and brazen claws, how did you feel?”
Helen looked at him. “Like screaming!”
she said.

“You see? A child identifies itself with its
fantasy life with a terrible inward intensity.
And it grows cold and distant when an adult
tries to break in on that life. A child puts
a part of itself into everything — its play-
things, its toys ; in fact, there’s almost a phys-

HEAD 147

ical transference, as though ectoplasm flowed
out of the child and into its books and toys!”

“So you believe in ectoplasm now!”

“You know belter than that!”

“Do I?”

“Please, dear ! Let’s not quarrel.” . . .

Upstairs in his own small room Johnny
picked up Fuzzy Head. Fuzzy Head was
older than Johnny. Fuzzy Head was ten
years young, a medium-sized walking and
talking doll with a wooden trunk, metal
limbs and a plaster-of-Paris face. Modern,
functional dolls are fearfully and wonderfully
made, but old-fashioned dolls speak the lan-
guage of childhood, of dark, unexplored at-
tics, hidden jam pots, and calico-draped
dressmaking dummies as slim as mother used
to be.

Some children prefer them.

Fuzzy Head was a hybrid — a Second
World War priority doll, a product of scarci-
ty and dread, made in that fluttering heart-
beat of time between Oak Ridge and Bikini.

Put the bright side outward. There are
still children in the world. Paint his cheeks
and give him a chubby look. Make his eyes
glitter like agates won by a clever little boy in
a game of marbles.

Fuzzy Head wasn’t beautiful, though. He
was far too peculiar to seem attractive to any-
one except Johnny. He had survived thump-
ings and poundings, the infinite unrest of the
very young, the petulance and dark rancours
of Johnny’s early infancy.

His head was still covered with fuzzy
locks. Hence his nickname, given to him by
Johnny in the privacy of night, by a light
that never was on sea or land.

Every effort had been put forth to make
Fuzzy Head look rosy-cheeked, and whole-
some, but actually he looked like a little old
man, a malign frop out of Lilliput.

What’s a jropf Johnny knew — but he
wasn’t telling.

Johnny picked up Fuzzy Head and set him
down in a dark corner. Johnny knelt on the
floor in front of Fuzzy Head.

“Glow, Fuzzy Head!” Johnny whispered.

It seemed to Johnny that Fuzzy Head
lighted up. Johnny was quite calm about it.

“When will they come for me, Fuzzy
Head?”

It seemed to Johnny that the doll screwed
up its face and refused to answer.

“If you don’t tell me I’ll make you Illth
the Illth!” Johnny warned.

148 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

Fuzzy Head remained silent.

Tlie ritual was not a difficult one. Johnny
had performed it before, though it was hard
on Fuzzy Head. The ritual tore and wrenched
at Fuzzy Head, shaking the doll to its vitals.

“Illth!” Johnny commanded.

It seemed to Johnny that Fuzzy Head
turned a complete somersault in the air, very
slowly, glowing brightly, and with a look
of anguish on his face.

"Illth the Illth!” Johnny whispered.

Fuzzy Head seemed to shrivel a little.
Johnny opened his mouth and shut it again.
Fuzzy Head was turning inside out as he
shriveled.

Metal parts came into view and glowed
with a dull, eerie radiance. Fuzzy Head’s in-
sides. Wires and a voice box — but all outside
of Fuzzy Head now. There were no broken
surfaces.

Fuzzy Head had turned inside out without
seeming to do so !

Johnny had turned rubber balls inside out
in the same way. He had made rubber balls,
and clocks illth the illth, just to prove to
himself how easy it was. Never a cat —
because Johnny wasn’t cruel.

Fuzzy Head couldn’t feel any flesh-and-
blood pain, or really understand what was
happening to him.

Fuzzy Head was now — reversed.

“Tell me!’’ Johnny intoned. “Tell me!
Tell me ! Tell me!"

Out of the doll came speech. High and
shrill, like a whistle being squeezed.

“They are here now ! They are crossing
the lawn!”

With a little sob of pure rapture, Johnny
scrambled to his feet. Almost, in his wild ex-
citement, he forgot to unscramble Fuzzy
Head. The doll screeched piteously. There
was a wrongness about it that would have
sickened an adult, a wrongness as hideous
as misapplied surgery, or an unbroken egg,
turned bad and spilling its yolk in some un-
guessable fashion. A look of tender com-
passion, odd in a child, came into Johnny’s
face.

“Poor Fuzzy Head! I forgot!”

Turning swiftly, Johnny waved his hand
over the doll, intoning a few curious words,
“ Sil Unsilitli Undroth!"

Slowly, still glowing dully, Fuzzy Head
returned to his normal state.

A moment later Johnny was standing with

his face pressed to the window, his heart
thumping wildly. m

He could see them clearly now — a man and
a woman, radiant in flowing garments, sweep-
ing straight across the lawn toward the house.
Their faces were strange, like petalled flowers
but much brighter than the flowers which
Johnny could make glow in the dark.

Their feet, Johnny noticed, were tipped
with little fluttering wings of flame. He’d
always known they would come for him, as
far back as he could remember, and he could
remember the first fluttering of his heart. He
could remember himself red and angry,
flushed with resentment because he was so
very small and helpless and everyone ignored
his wailing protests.

The man and the woman were rising now.
Straight up toward the window, their faces
shining in the moonlight.

Johnny exhaled a deep breath and stepped
back from the window. At almost the same
instant they were in the room with him !

Johnny tried to be calm, pretending he’d
known all along that they were his true
parents. But suddenly fierce emotion over-
came him. lie choked, flushed and threw his
arm across his face to conceal the way he
felt.

“Hello, Johnny!” a bell-like voice said.

“We’ve come to take you home, Johnny!”
a second voice chimed.

It seemed to Johnny that he could be
happy dying at once, but he knew that he
would be even happier when they took him
away to live with them forever.

S LOWLY Johnny uncovered his eyes and
looked at his new parents.

It would not have been easy for an ordi-
nary little boy to stare steadily into the blaz-
ing face of the sun, and Johnny was staring
at two suns, equally bright.

But Johnny was not an ordinary little boy.
Although he did not know it, his own face
was, briefly, a sun.

For a moment it seemed to Johnny that the
room was filled with — the others. A wheel
of fire that kept spinning as he stared, with
a great gray face in the middle of the glowing
spokes. A big Easter egg on stilts, with its
dry mouth hanging open, and its little beady
eyes twinkling with merriment.

An animal that wasn’t quite a rabbit. It
was furry and bob-tailed, but its head kept
swimming out of focus. When Johnny stared

FUZZY HEAD 149

very hard the rabbit’s head became a glowing
prism, mirroring all the colors of the rain-
bow.

There were gilths, too — thin and dark and
hairy, with burning glass eyes, and dull fire
balls, pulsing.

Suddenly Johnny remembered Fuzzy
Head.

He turned and walked back into the room.
He knew that his new parents were watching
him but he didn’t want to talk about Fuzzy
Head. He just wanted to keep Fuzzy Head,
and he was suddenly trembling in every
limb.

Between suns there are no secrets.
Thoughts are open, and blaze from mind to
mind.

Johnny knew, and the thought was pure
torment, that his new parents didn’t want
him to keep Fuzzy Head. No, that wasn’t
quite true. They wanted him to keep Fuzzy
Head, but they were telling him that he
couldn’t.

Johnny stooped and picked Fuzzy Head up.
He tucked the doll under his arm, and re-
turned to where his parents were standing.

“No, Johnny!” The words came chiming-
ly. “You can’t take that doll with you. He’s
grooved too deeply into human space. Human
hands made him, Johnny. He’s just an ugly
thought-pattern made of drift material. He’s
solid, Johnny. You’re not!”

Sweat came out on Johnny’s face and
froze to his face. A silent cold seemed to bite
through him.

“We know how you feel, Johnny! You’re
still a little human boy in some respects, but
you can break out now if you try. You’re
old enough and wise enough. If you take
our hands and walk with us, you’ll cease to be
human.”

“And Fuzzy Head?”

“Johnny, a doll can’t walk with the more-
than-human. No, Johnny! Sorry!”

A look of stricken horror had come into
Johnny’s face. He had never before realized
how much Fuzzy Head meant to him.

“No, I— I w-won’t!” he stammered.

"You won’t what Johnny?”

“Go away and leave him ! Everybody says
he’s ugly ! But he’s mine, just like I was his
father. Good father’s don’t desert their sons.”

It was an adult statement, but Johnny
sometimes surprised himself by the things he
could say.

The radiant man seemed surprised too.

“But Johnny, he’s just a wooden doll. John-
ny, think ! You can play with the lililis! The
stars are not so bright. When you stretch out
your arms and repeat the Illth formula you’re
not even Johnny. Not Johnny at all !”

“I don’t want to be not Johnny — without
Fuzzy Head!”

“But we are your parents now, Johnny!”
“Not without Fuzzy Head. I’m Fuzzy
Head’s father!”

Suddenly Johnny burst into tears. The
radiant man and woman exchanged lightning-
swift glances. Then, in utter silence, they
darted into shadows. They whispered to-
gether.

“I never expected this, Celia. He isn’t
mature yet. A doll means more to him than
we do.”

“But he doesn’t belong here. He belongs
with us. We’re his real parents now.”

“Not yet, Celia. He’s still too much of a
child, not quite human, but immature. In
fact, except at rare moments, he still looks
human. Have you noticed?”

“Yes, naturally. But when he looks at us
he changes. If we took him away now, he’d
alter still more.”

“Celia, think back. When you were very
young and played with dolls.”

“They were never human toys.”

“No. But you were never human, Celia.
Fuzzy Head isn’t a human doll now. Johnny
changed him by playing with him!”

“What do you mean?”

“Once Fuzzy Head was just a wooden doll
in a toy shop on earth. But Johnny poured
a part of himself into Fuzzy Head. A child
always does that. Even when a human child
puts itself into its fantasy life there’s almost a
physical transference. And Johnny could do
it better than a human child !”

“You mean?”

“We can’t take Johnny now. When he
learns to put aside childish things, he’ll be
ready to go with us, but not before. He’ll
have to detach himself from Fuzzy Head
first. If we did the detaching, something
rather dreadful might happen to Johnny.
There would be — a tearing!”

“Oh, don’t! That’s horrible!”

“Yes. You see, Celia, Fuzzy Head is still
too much a part of Johnny. You might
almost say flesh of Johnny’s flesh and bone
of Johnny’s bone!”

“But some day we’ll have Johnny?”

“Of course. But he’ll have to stay here

150 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

with Fuzzy Head and his human parents un-
til he grows more mature. In ten — twelve
years perhaps. Human years. They pass
swiftly.”

T HERE was a sudden, pulsing bright-
ness in the shadows.

As Johnny stared, a tight, hard lump in
his throat, it swirled around the radiant man
and woman and lifted them into the air. It
touched Johnny too for an instant, almost
earessingly. Then it dimmed and vanished.

As the shadows came rushing back Johnny
gripped Fuzzy Head fiercely and held him
close.

“I’ll never leave you !” he sobbed. “You’re
mine, forever and ever. When I have to
punish you, it hurts me, too ! Awfully, Fuzzy
Head !”

Hot tears stung the corners of Johnny’s
eyes.

“I’m going to stay here with you, Fuzzy
Head ! I love you most — but Pops is all
right, too, I guess!”

Mom wasn’t so bad either, he conceded
after a moment of calm thought. The calm-
ness had come slowly, brightening all about
him like sunlight after rain. Johnny felt
happy and relieved. Also, he was as sleepy
as a bewhiskered tomcat that had overstayed
its leave on the back fence.

Johnny’s father opened the door of
Johnny’s room and stared in at his son.

Johnny was sleeping with one small arm
thrown across Fuzzy Head and a peaceful
look on his face. There was a curious wet-
ness on Johnny’s eyelashes, as though he’d
just returned from a walk in the garden,
through the dewy darkness, with moist clover
and elfin cobwebs under his feet.

Had Johnny been crying?

Stephen smiled tenderly and a little in-
credulously. Then, slowly, his lips tightened
and he shook his head.

It had to be done ! He wasn’t going to have
Johnny grow up with a doll complex. It
had gone on too long already.

Cautiously Stephen bent and disentangled
the doll from his son’s embrace. His hands
shook a little. He hoped that Johnny
wouldn’t wake up. But even if Johnny awoke
and sat up straight, his eyes bright and
accusing in the pulsing gloom, Fuzzy Head’s
fate would remain grimly sealed.

Fuzzy Head was about to go on a trip
through the dark, silent house. Along the

hall and downstairs into the cellar, helpless
in the clutches of a very determined father.

Johnny did not even stir in his sleep.

There was nothing but pitch blackness in
the hall outside Johnny’s room. Stephen
hurried along the hall, and down two flights
of stairs with Fuzzy Head securely cradled
in the crook of his right arm.

“This is the pay-off, little man!” he whis-
pered fiercely.

The instant Stephen reached the cellar he
shifted Fuzzy Head to his left arm, holding
him upside down. He had to have his right
arm free to get the furnace door open.

The furnace was raging brightly on a
strong updraft — Stephen had seen to that
well in advance.

Through the grated door a red inferno was
visible.

The raging redness was not confined to
the furnace, however. It filled the entire
cellar with its flickering, as though a little
corner of Hades had been moved into the
house for the sole purpose of getting rid of
Fuzzy Head.

Stephen did not waste a single heartbeat
regretting his decision. He moved swiftly
and decisively, tightening his grip on the
doll and wrenching at the furnace door with
his free hand.

As the fiery portal swung open a blast of
heated air smote him full in the face, almost
suffocating him. But he did not recoil. In-
stead, he drew closer to the fiery pit, despite
the blistering heat, and raised Fuzzy Head
up until the doll was poised above the flames
at just the right angle, like a coffin in a
crematorium.

“Burn and wither, little man!”

S TEPHEN knew that he spoke to the
doll but he had no clear recollection of
moving his arm. Yet he must have done so,
for suddenly as he stared the doll seemed to
slip from his clasp and shoot forward —
straight forward into the high-leaping flames.

From somewhere upstairs there came a
piercing shriek.

Sweat broke out on Stephen’s palms when
he saw that he was still holding the doll.

Sometimes the urge to perform an act
can be so strong, the need so urgent, that the
imagination becomes like a pair of white-
hot tongs, overheated, and capable of flat-
tening reality to a thin edge of blackness on
an anvil without substance. The mind leaps

FUZZY HEAD 151

ahead of the act, and it seems to happen —
with a terrible clarity.

Stephen hadn’t thrown Fuzzy Head into
the flames.

Thank heavens ! What a fool a man was
to think that destiny was a single strand
that could be twisted around the finger. In
the immense complexity of a child’s inner
life were multitudinous cross-currents. A
parent bad no right to be ruthless and make
hasty decisions.

Fuzzy Head was almost a part of Johnny.

Perhaps Johnny needed a doll to play with,
just as other little boys needed toy loco-
motives and white mice. Perhaps there was
a streak of hard cruelty in Johnny that
needed the humananizing influence of a doll.
In that case, it would not be unmanly for

Johnny to play with a doll, right up to the
age of ten.

Perhaps the bell-rope of Johnny’s inner
life needed to be rung by an ugly and ridicu-
lous doll, to make clear, crystal notes that
would sound out into eternity.

Stephen went slowly back up the stairs
to Johnny’s room, his feet dragging a little.
He opened the door and peered in.

Johnny was still asleep.

Stephen crossed to Johnny’s cot on tiptoe
and put Fuzzy Head back, very carefully and
gently.

Johnny opened bis eyes.

“Uh! Hello Pons?”

Stephen grinned and gave his son’s shoul-
der a pat.

"Hello, Johnny ! Pleasant dreams !”

THE HEADER SREAK4S

(Continued from page 10)

less the turnout for the list in the June, 1949
STARTLING STORIES is a lot better we’re
going to discontinue the listings. Get your
entries in by February first and, just because
you’ve had your group listed once, don’t
withhold your entry. We want to make this
a regular annual custom in both magazines —
TWS every December and SS every June — so
how about rallying ’round?

OUR NEXT ISSUE

T HANKS to our recent enlargement in
size we are able to publish the long nov-
els which formerly were usable only in our
companion magazine, STARTLING STO-
RIES, and we’re inaugurating this new policy
with a triple-plated lulu — THE WEAPON
SHOPS OF ISHER by A. E. van Vogt.

Those of you who have not read any of the
“weapon shop” stories in other magazines are
in for a delightful surprise and those of you
who have can look forward to it with antici-
pation.

Like its predecessors, THE WEAPON
SHOPS OF ISHER deals with the Earth in
the distant future — when its material and
spiritual marvels are divided between the
centralization of empire and the deliberate
and highly benevolent anarchy of the Weapon
Shops themselves.

The never-ending struggle between these
two disparate social elements is in danger of
complete collapse due to a time and space
warp in which a twentieth century Earth-
man, reporter Chris McAllister, has become
the fulcrum that may destroy a universe.

Something has got to be done about him
and both sides are seeking to turn the accom-
plishment to their own advantage. The world,
which may die at any moment, is in a state of
unbearable crisis.

Into this delicately balanced setup comes
a young countryman named Cayle, who be-
comes unwittingly through his eidetic memo-
ry and genius at predicting all sorts of odds
a vital factor in the situation. And it is Cayle
-and his friend, the Weapon Shop girl, whom
we follow through a brilliantly meshed maze
of action and ideas to a climax as startling as
it is thrilling.

Mr. van Vogt’s introduction to TWS read-
ers will be a memorable one. The author of
the famed SLAN and THE WORLD OF A
has produced a truly scintillating novel in
THE WEAPON SHOPS OF ISHER.

James Blish, whose MISTAKE INSIDE is
still fondly remembered, has collaborated
with Damon Knight on a novelet about the
visitor from space whose purpose must be
solved before he destroys the world. It is
entitled THE WEAKNESS OF RVOG and
its climax is one which, for ingenuity and

152 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

suspense, should stop a lot of heart beats.

Benj. Miller, whose Orig Prem stories have
already caused a lot of laughs, comes in with
a longer incident about his temperamental
robot, MONSTERS FROM THE WEST, in
which the time-traveling little organizer
solves the riddle of the wherefore of the
vanishing Mayans. It’s a howler.

Short stories will be plentiful in the new
big TWS as will features — with F. Orlin Tre-
maine and the second of his articles on the
road to the stars through man’s understand-
ing of himself, PEAS TO HORSES TO MEN.
February should be a hot month for TWS
readers without a trip to the southern hemi-
sphere.

LETTERS FROM OUR READERS

NE thing that can scarcely be said about
this column is that it refuses to do any
favor within its power. In proof thereof we
print the following desperation epistle.

STOP THE PRESSES!

by Marvin Williams

Dear Editor: Stop I Don't print the letter I just sent
you. I just learned that I'm wrong about Sturgeon
being Kuttner. Don’t print the letter or I’ll get shot.
Please, on bended knee, I beg you to have mercy. Not
that I really expected you to print it anyway but if
you should decide to change your mind RIGHT NOW
I promise never to call you anything but nice names.
After all, what’d I ever do to you except send you a
couple of crummy stories. Don’t print that letter!!!!!!
— 1431 Second Avenue, South Cedar Rapids, Iowa .

There was nothing to get so desperate
about, Marvin. True, we had intended to run
your epistle above a wedge-shaped slab of
cutting commentary on your belief that
Theodore Sturgeon was merely another pen
name for Henry Kuttner — but the column
doesn’t really need it — I mean, it’s bigger than
you or ourselves, so we’re glad to suppress
the note. Feel better now?

We hope not.

NOTE FROM NIPPON

by Pfc Fred J. Remus Jr.

Dear Editor: Please pardon the poor typing and

correct it, but I have quite a few things that I want
to get off of my mind.

In the first place, I have been reading everything
that I could get my hands on that pertains to rockets,
both liquid and powder fueled. In the second, I am
one of those people who are intensely interested in the
possibility of a “station in space.’’ I want to contact
all others interested in the same thing. I have de-
veloped a few of my own ideas on that subject. Here
they are, and I would appreciate comment and query.

1. The space station is possible now. The only thing
that holds us back is lack of either money or the in-
formation that the army holds.

2. The best method of construction that I can see

is a number of cellular units hexagonal in shape. A
good analogy in this case is the comb of the honey
bee. The First step would be to send one unit aloft
and start it in its orbit. The “cell” contains the men
and materials to attach the additional units as they
are sent up. When the cell is in its orbit the propulsive
unit could be detached and sent back to earth. A
ribbon chute or some other device would come in
handy at this point. The same rocket could be used
to hoist more than one “cell” if it could be salvaged
and refueled. I don’t doubt but what most of them
won’t be re-usable, but if some were it would be
worth the effort.

3. Uses of the station. I got a few ideas from Willy
Ley’s book “Rockets and Space Travel” that were
interesting. As a laboratory it would be unequaled.
As a fueling station it may not be necessary. A squib
I saw in the “Stars and Stripes” for the Pacific Theater
convinced me of that. It mentioned that a renewed
contract for experiment on atomic fuels for aircraft
and rockets was awarded by the Army to a certain
physicist (I have forgotten his name). If there was
no possibility of success why would they renew the
contract? It mentioned two years as the length of the
contract. Another article I read yesterday stated that
the X-Sl had “many times” passed the supersonic
barrier. I wonder what kind of fuel the X-s 9 will
use, or do I already know? Perhaps it already is in
use.

4. The materials used in construction should, I be-
lieve, consist mainly of glass. Now wait, don’t start
yelling, “Impossible!” before you know the facts. Glass
can be made opaque to X-rays, a most desirable quality
when the atmosphere of the earth no longer protect
you. It can also be made to cut down the amount of
incidental ultra-violet light in order to stop sunburn.
There are other advantages, too, but someone may
have a better idea.

That’s all I have on hand about the station at the
moment, but I would like to hear from someone who
does know of a better material, if there is one.

Rhymes on the Moon

A baby on earth once cried for the moon

Legends were written of Luna.

I think that the space station is but a step.

And that if it doesn’t get us there later, it’ll get
us there suna.

All right, Ed, now don’t blow your top! Ogden Nash
does it too. I had to get that out of my system and
give you an opportunity to reply in kind. I sit here
on the coast of Japan and read science fiction to pass
away the time.

I am a weather observer, and my present schedule
calls for three days on and three off. During my off
days (take that any way you want) I think up
“poetry”. I have two favorite forms, the one Nash
uses and limericks. — i.e. —

There once was a man in the moon

Who got good and drunk, the dumb goon

On the morning after,

He lay on the rafter,

He got far too “high” far too soon.

—19278700, 20-19 AWS Det., APO 468, Unit 1, c/o Post-
master, San Francisco, California.

Well, to carry this Ogden Nash thing a trifle
further (did anyone else outside of ourselves
ever confuse him inextricably with Donald
Ogden Stewart?) let’s try this on for size —

If in a space-ship we e’er eat raviola

We'll have to dine in an anti-grav gondola

And if while en route we come down with cosmasthma

We’ll borrow the stewardess’ anti-as-plasma.

The Edwin Lear-limerick form is almost
too simple after such contrapuntal linguistic
gymnastics. But none the less and howso-
ever —

There was a young man in Japan
Who never could work up a tan
When they said, “Are you Nip?”

He replied, ** It’s a gyp.

But my tendrils inform me I’m Sian.”

THE READER SPEAKS 153

In slightly more serious vein, may we wish
you lots of answering correnspondence, Pfc
Remus, and hope that some of it drifts into
this column? Drop us another line soon.

AN AUTHOR SPEAKS

by Joe Gibson

Dear Editor:

Perhaps it isn’t customary
Unless we’re In a mortuary
For eds to pub the letters
Of a writer
To a ’zine

Except in cases gastronomic
When science-fiction needs a tonic
We then may sally forth and
Slay the culprits
Low and mean

But leave us make a small exception
And with no fanfare or deception
Here’s Gibson, you can have him
With complexion
Slightly green

Any relation between me and a BEM Is purely
hereditary.

But writing a story for a pro does put a fan in a
spot. Aside from the fact that the readers’ll probably
make this Gibson’s Obituary in reprisal. I like you,
too. But I hadn’t thought about it before — suppose
you print this, this Thing! Fans are either going to
think I'm conceitedly plugging myself, or trying to
butter up Ye Ed to accept another Gibson yam (fat
chance I’d have of getting one accepted that way!)
and if Gibson must plug himself, Ye Ed should lend
him a ray-gun for purposes of same. I.e., if I want
to sell you more yarns at least a little better than that
first one, I should shut up!

Can’t do it. Nope. Stand clear and gimme my say!
Fact is, I simply want to go on record praising you
for the best fan -letter columns of all the stf publica-
tions on the newsstands. Honestly, the letters in TRS
and TEV are themselves enough to have my quarter
plunked down every issue! And it is, fella, it is.

But say, I haven’t read such gay repartee since
Forrie Ackerman used to publish his fanzine Voice
of the Imagi-Nation! Remember that one? Mmmpim —
haow ah reminisce! And here in your colyums I find
that fan still means fun, no matter how you pro-
nounce it! Maybe I’m off my trolley or maybe I’ll
never grow up — it’s still fun!

But on to other things. Bergey gals, for example.
Everyone mentions the Bergey gals! Incidently, there’s
a fairly good technical argument in favor of guys
wearing Tee-shorts and gals wearing luxables in the
artificial environment of spaceship or spacesuit. Even
for spacesuils being transparent! On the latter, sup-
pose your pressure -circulate on gear goes on the blink —
what’s the next best indicator when your helmet
dials give false readings?

Mabel/ Thai’s my birthmark!

But a lack of humor in stf surprises, rather than
mortifies, me. Eeegads. some of the traj eddies we
get! Ain’t there enough? ’Sa rough life, I’ll admit,
but — you gotta stay happy!

One thing that roused my ire was the comment by
Mrs- Helen Hough (TRS, August TWS) that “any
magazine more likely to appeal to men seems to give
the males a feeling that women should keep out.”
Should we tell the gals to run home and play with
their dollies, Ed? Hey, that’s my popsicle! Ya bum!
Gads, and note how the femme fans run down the
Bergey gals — and then go bobby-sex over the bulging-
biceps lads! How about that?

One thing wrong with Conlon’s space weapons —
space is big and full of star-clutter. R.S. Richardson,
the West Coast astronomer and scienti fiction connois-
seur, could make hash of a topic like this. Edwin
Sigler has a point, but he’s going out on a limb. Hein-
lein wrote some revealing paragrafs on ray-guns.
Russ Woodman was apparently in the midst of one o’
them moods. Perfectly natural thing, fella. At least,
you’re being your age — while in my case?? Hinmm.

C’mon, Ed — let’s go over and blow the head off one
in the Old Timers’ Cafe.

Seriously, let’s consider this Bergey gal argument.
Are the covers worthless or do they have any value
at all? Well, I’d say they do have value.

And while we’re on the subject, has Astra Zimmer
been around? Is she — er — um — actually a living,
breathing Bergey gal? Hey, if she comes around, run
up a distress signal, man! (Gads, if I only had biceps!
Hmmmm?) — 24 Kensington Ave., Jersey City , N. J.

We should run up a distress signal in such
a predicament, Joe. You’d better stay over
on your own side of the Hudson and cool off.
We’ve published plenty of authors’ letters in
this space — such as Kuttner, Wellman,

Sturgeon and others. So you’re in reasonably
good company.

Get back to your typewriter, kulak!

LOVECRAFTIANA

by Mrs. Muriel E. Eddy

Dear Editor: Many readers of TWS have asked me
about the exact condition of the grave of Howard
Phillips Lovecraft. In fairness to all (because it would
take hours to reply personally to each separate in-
quiry) I’d like to take enough space in your valued
magazine to explain just where the grave of this great
weird tales writer is located.

It is not, as many have imagined, situated in a
lonesome part of an obscure rural cemetery — instead,
it is part of the Phillips Family Burial Plot, in beau-
tiful Swan Point Cemetery, about three miles from
the center of Providence, capital of Rhode Island.
This cemetery is the best, the most exclusive, and
the mosi famous of all Rhode Island cemeteries. People
from all over the country visit this beautiful burying-
place. Its memorial statues are wonderful — angels,
crosses, shafts pointing heavenward, really a marvelous
place to rest!

Perhaps the most outstanding part of Swan Point
Cemetery is the sign over the entrance arches, which
reads: “This Cemetery Is Closed At Dusk. No Ad-
mittance After Dark.” I’ve often thought what a weird
story Lovecraft could have concocted after reading
that sign! Green ivy vines grow all around the sign,
which sways in the breeze as one drives in to a
perfect maze of streets (all of them named) which
wind in and out, in and out, in a never-ending fantasy
of seemingly endless highroads and bypaths— and
great, age-old trees grow in the cemetery. We saw
some trees actually growing RIGHT OUT OF THE
OLDEST GRAVES!

Lovecraft’s name, age and time of birth and death
you’ll find chiseled into the huge marble central shaft,
in the Phillips Family Burial Plot. His grave lies
right behind the shaft, which is enormously tall,
pointing a thin finger to the sky. He lies as near his
mother and father as possible, with his aunts in the
same plot, and his beloved grandparents are also
interred there.

All the other graves have headstones and each
grave, including Lovecraft’s, is remarkably well-kept.
When we visited Lovecraft’s grave the last time, I
kneeled reverently and with loving fingers removed a
tiny green sprig of myrtle from Lovecraft’s last rest-
ing-place. I kept it in a glass on the window-sill until
it sprouted— then I sent it to an admirer of H.P.L. far,
far away. I understand it took root and grew apace;
So, all you fans of “different" stories who loved H.P.L.
rest assured his earthly remains were well taken care
of!

In closing, let me add that the OCTOBER, 1948,
TWS was, in my way of thinking, “the best yet” — very,
very good! Ray Bradbury, as usual, scored ace-high!
I really disliked nothing in this issue — so why groan?
Instead — thanks, dear editor. You did a superb Job.
This issue was TOPS I Thanks to everybody for
writing. I’ve sent photos of H.P.L. *s last resting-place
to many of your readers. I’m pleased to know our
dear writer -pal had so many friends who miss him! —
125 Pearl Street, Providence 7, Rhode Island .

As Mrs. Eddy indicated, the late Howard
Phillips Lovecraft is generally rated among

154 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

the few outstanding latter-day American
writers of the weird and occult.

WONDERFUL— WONDERFUL!

by R. W. Johnson

Dear Editor: Good news is always good, they say.

And the news we may expect another 5c worth of
pages in the next issue of TWS Is good news indeed!
And SS, too, is too be enlarged! Truly, the world is
Improving. The stf world, that is!

Stf has acquired a “new look’’ quite rapidly since
the war. And I’m sure all will agree the change has
been for the better. While I’m for the "new look," I'm
definitely against the “Old Guard” authors writing
for the "new look" under new names.

I’ve nothing against an author using pen names.
But golly-whiz one pen name should be enough. (This
beef doesn’t apply to HanK, though. Everyone recog-
nizes his super work, no matter what pseudonym he
employs.) Also, I can’t condone the practise of
using two stories by the same writer in the magazine
at the same time — unless the same name is used on
both stories.

This is embarrassing and deceptive. It deceives the
reader into believing he is getting more for his money
than he actually is. Of course, what the reader doesn't
know won’t hurt him, so I suppose there isn’t any
real evil in this practise. When you get down to tech-
nicalities, it really doesn’t matter who writes a story.

A good story by Sam Knutts would be just as good
if it were signed Henry Kuttner or E.E. Smithsonian.
So I suppose I haven't any real reason for kicking,
except I just don’t approve of it. I never have and
never will approve either. Whether it be in stf or
some other kind of fiction — if there is some other kind !

CLIMATE — INCORPORATED was the best yam in
the current crop, closely followed by THE ROTO-
HOUSE, then HAPPY ENDING. For some reason, the
feature novelet comes in fourth, with Will F.’s fan-
tasy fifth. The rest tie for sixth.

All in all, TWS seems to be holding its own — way up
on top of the heap! — Box 2392, West Gastonia, N. C.

For a moment there we thought you were
going to give us an argument on the matter
of using pseudonyms for authors. But you
answered your own question very nicely. If
the story is good it scarcely matters who
wrote it and under what by-line. Personally,
as long as we have the plays to read and see,
we have never been able to understand the
fuddy-duddy- ish snoopiness (under the guise
of scholarship) which permits alleged human
beings to spend their lives trying to prove
that Shakespeare didn’t write Shakespeare’s
plays.

It is a strange perversion. As to not using
the same by-lines twice in an issue, it is
proven and sound editorial policy — and, as
you say, as long as the stories are good, so
what? For the rest, thanks.

THAT SOUTH CATE CATE

by Richard Sneary

Dear %$# — How can I stand it? No letter this
time. Oh the horror of it all! My fame Is waning —
I’m on the way out. Cast aside like a last years skirt.
You don’t love me anymore — you slob. And after I've
given you the best years of my life.

Well about the most exciting thing was the official
announcement you were going to 180 pages . . This is
great news for the readers that can’t ever get enough.
Looking at a my collection, and a few borrowed copies
of late issues, I see that beats the page rate of all
your competators . . If you can keep on with the
good stories is the big question. You have a good

back log now, but will Kuttner and pen names be
able to keep up with you. I hope so. . . .

One thing though. One is given to wonder if this
is the end. Will you be apt to increase again in six
months. To 210 pages for 30c. Then to 242 pages
for 35c . . In side of 10 years a copy of TWS would
have 820 pages and cost $1.25 . . It would be a full time
job just to read it . . You see what could happen if
you got carryed away with this idea.

The story, Mr. Zytztz — was very good. It is a little
off the usual line of gushy/bloody lead novels . . .
Loomis is an old enough craftsman in the field that of
this kine has come to be expected. Stevenson’s art work
was very good, but I would like to dissagree with the
picture he drew of Mr. Zytztz, Ofcourse I suppose
everyone got a different mental picture, but mine
doesn’t match his. First he is to spinly. I would ex-
pext more of a solid bush, with long and thin air
roots, and sensitive feelers acting as hands and
ear/eyes. As they seemed to live solely on Soler
radation, their leaves should have been brouder.

As I don’t even have a average interest in planet, I
don’t think it to much to expect your artist to use
the same logic . . I’m sure if we went to Mars and
found they had been piturlng us as being three feet

high, and having two heads and ten legs we would

be most insulted.

Oh yes . . While on the subject of art, who did the

spred on page 56-57? A reather compleat surch re-

veiled no name . . Looks new. Looks like some one
you stold from Gushy Love Tales . . That is his peoples
look like the kine found in love story mags. That’s
not an insult, but they are different . . The back-
groud though is a different matter. The first time I
say it. (In a slick mag) it was good. This black and
white copy isn’t so good.

Anyway, whats Mars got to do with the story . . It
is Mars you know, . . Even to the two moons. Who’s
that, the young spy she blabed to? Tosh . . Who ever
his guy is he is good . . But you better give him a
corse in stf art . . Make him look at a few hundrad
old copies. So far he doesn't have the feel.

I thought The Ionian Cycle very good . . I kept
wating for the scientist to get mad and try and kill the
hero . . Tenn fooled me all the way . . More of this
kine please . . You pick up a little painless knowalage,
and send a pleasen hour.

I can’t understand St. Clair . . She is such a good
writer, yet she uses the stupidest plots. I know where
she got the idea though. Remember thos round alumi-
num houses pitured in LIFE about 18 months back.
They were built around a center pilon . . I must hand
it to Mrs. SC for the neat switch . . But still the plots
to light.

Say what goes with Bradbury!! Does he want to
drive all his headers off into a rest camp for people
who see deros? This latest one pushes the reader out
on the edge of his chair wondering how the hero is
going to get out of the stupid situation, and then
pushes him off. Add to it Kuttners little dusey. and
you leave the reader with his fingernails and hair all
over the place.

I yawn mildly when the hero bashs his way out
of the inside of a BEM. When he blows a planet to
peices to get even with his girl, I liter mildly. When
in the line of duty he is killed, to die in his sweet-
hearts arms, I rase an eye brow . . But this . . . Eeeeeee
Gad!

One feels like a kid in a western that is trying to
warn the hero that Bloody Bart is sneeking up on
him. Or like seeing the heros horse trip as he ruses
to pull Miss. Jane off the tracks. . Oh please . . Only
one at a time Ed. I can naw the nails off only one
hand, have a heart.

In looking over the Reader Speaks I see you say
you are cutting down on -hero-saves- the- world stories.
Great. Keep this up and you will be as good as we
all say you are.

Before I return Miss. (?) Gholson’s love, I’d like to
know how it was sent, and what she looks like . . I fear
I would have to make sure that they didn’t drop a
‘u’ out of Gholson before I would let myself go.

Your remarks on putting crumbled art gum in pipe
mix strikes us, (a none smoke) as being more feindish
than a A-bomb . . But while on the subject, did you
ever subcatute a shaped turnip or potato for the soap
in a barbers shaving-mug? This falls underthe head-
ing of good clean fun . . — An even better one is
frosting a cake with beaten soap-suds. (One part
water to one part soap and beat with egg beater.) Oh
my. I’ll give you the wrong impression of me. I’m
reall a dear sweet lad that wouldn’t think of doing
such things . — 2962 Santa Ana Street, South Gate, Cali-
fornia .

THE READER SPEAKS 155

Ourselves, we go for that shaped turnip
in a lather mug — we use one ourselves. Back
in boarding school some of the lads used to
substitute pencils for bed-bolts. The victim
would turn in after, say, a hard day at foot-
ball practice and ready for the sack, would
stretch out in blissful relaxation, turn over
once — and that was all, brother! He’d be
lying amid the apparent wreckage of his cot.

There is no end to the ingenuity — to say
nothing of the energy — of youth. You can
have it!

PRESENT IMPERFECT

by Mrs. Helen Hough

Dear Editor: Well, thanks so much for printing my
letter and also for the judicious cutting. Next to
seeing your magazine each month I can’t think of any-
thing better than increasing their size. After all, two
months is a long time to wait.

The August issue is short of perfection by one small
item — and since it comes at the very end of a string
of line stories I can overlook it. I just can’t agree that
the St. Clair series is something new in science fiction.
It’s much too much like the stories in the so-called
“women’s magazines’’ and I hope Mrs. St. Clair doesn’t
start a trend.

I enjoyed MR. ZYTZTZ tremendously. Sure hope he
arrived home safely. After the troubles he had getting
started he certainly deserved a break. Hereafter I shall
treat my garden with great respect.

The three novelets ran neck and neck with perhaps
a slight edge to CLIMATE— INCORPORATED, chiefly
because I hate cold weather. Now if someone could
invent a way to transport a case of soup within a
can of beans within a can of peaches within a can of
orange juice — well, hey!!

For me the short stories were topped by my favorite
of favorites. And here is something to make you groan.
I've read Bradbury here and Bradbury there. I seem
to read Bradbury everywhere. The place never falters
and style never sags. I've reread so often the pages are
rags. Whether comic or tragic, profound or inane, he’s
the best of the lot by sheer legerdemain.

With which I’ll let you shudder in peace. — 517 East
Main Street, Peru, Ind.

Oh well — what’s the use, the lady seems to
have cooked our goose. So we’ll ride a cocked
horse to Bradbury Cross and while thinking
Peru would not be a great loss — we’ll per-
force remind ourselves just that we orta
remember Peru’s the birthplace of Cole
Porter.

ELFIN DOUBLETALK

by J. F. Barnes

Dear Editor: Having spent a little time trying to de-
cipher the cryptic statements of S. V. McDaniel as
relayed by R. Clagett in Aug. TWS in regards to one
“elf on a baton, " I realize it is nothing but double-
talk. It doesn’t take his elementary geometry to see
that the “variable time” he speaks of is variable length
of time. In order to get even a semblance of a formula
for travel thru time, the “time” would have to be not
length of time but a dimensionless (excepting fourth)
thing probably inexpressible in any formula, much
less a simple one for arc length.

Am I right about this?

I would like to hear from your array of story re-
viewers on this subject as I am very interested in it,
being a third year college student in math and physics
among other things.

I read “Problem in Astrogation” yesterday because
it seemed to cause controversy in your R.S. column.
Likewise “Faceless Men” because according to letter

writers it was good. “The Sleeper is a Rebel” was
good.

I likewise am an author, having had a very good
story turned down by a well known mystery magazine
a while back. I may decide to write Stf.

This letter obviously won’t be printed because I used
no ungrammatical words or constructions and mis-
spelled nothing. — 8 Park Place, Saratoga, Calif.

Obviously — Ed.

DJINN RICKEY

by Rickey Slavin

Dear Editor: I have just finished reading the August
TWS and am sincerely glad to say that it was a re-
markably good issue. In the last five years or so SS
and TWS have jumped from a mediocre twinship to
two of the best stf publications of the decade.

Noel Loomis’ tongue-tying-titled story rates highest
in the ish. The idea had a new twist at least. Very
well written and amusing in spots. It is rare to find
humor and emotion combined so efficiently in a space
opus.

MEMORY — Ted Sturgeon is slipping. I remember a
few stories of his, written during the war years, that
really touched greatness. A disappointment. Wesley
Long can be dismissed with a "fair.” William Term
is slowly but surely making a fine name for himself in
the field. Bergey produced a wonderful cover. REGU-,
LATIONS by Leinster is a rehash of an ancient plot.
For shame! Kuttner remains Hank, the Master.

Bradbury, however, seems to have hit his winning
streak. Despite his present preoccupation with Mars et
al, he brings to these dear old pages new concepts,
neither revolutionary nor startling but provocative
and stimulating to my decrepit imagination.

Fitzgerald et cie — poor.

Our dear Maggie St. Clair improves with time. Her
description of the hands of the future has my beau-
tician in fits trying to emulate it. He insists that
cosmeticians of the future will need elementary
courses in dermatology, chemistry, optice, dyes, plas-
tics, ornithology (for the gosolba feathers) and fabrics
(for the chartreuse sequins). Oh boy! Maybe the
beauty treatments helped Oona but what happened
when I tried to dye my hair green — oooh-ohhh! I still
moan when I think of it. — 1626 Coney Island Avenue,
Brooklyn 30, New York.

Hate to think of what you’d have to say
about an issue that struck you as bad, Rickey.
And what’s wrong with green hair? Plenty
of folk have worn it from time to time — when
some beautician fumbled.

BRIMFUL BRITAIN

by K. F. Slater, Esq.

Dear Editor: Once again I stick one of these air 10c
forms into the old machine, to say that I am filled to
the brim. With Joy. If I could poetise, I would. An-
other 32 pages! and only 5c more. And as I got a sub —
I hope — I don’t hafta pay the extra for munce and
munce. Darn! See what these ere fonetics do to me.
Keep em out, willya? I can’t even spell either weigh
now.

Talking of things to come brings me back to things
in the past— July SS and Aug TWS. Well, I kind of
care for the femmes, but they they belong? DO
THEY? Answer, dam your hide. Aug TWS — a she-
male in a cellophane space suit, with a gold fish bowl,
and some riveted pants. I suppose those things in the
waisf band are rivets? I heard of shemales being sort
of fastened up like that in the bad old days— does EB
suggest that we are going back to it? Or am I wrong,
and they ain’t rivets?

The stories in both issues all passed me. No com-
plaints of any real worth at all. My favorite was QUIS
CUSTODIET (St. Clair) and the worst was THE ROTO-
HOUSE (also St. Clair.) So what? Just means that
I am getting a little tired of Oona? No, that wasn't
it. What was it now? To be honest, I got an awful im-
pression of ‘I’ve been here before.'

MR. WHOS1T GOES TO MARS— I ain’t akidding of
you, but this here hardened old tough really got quite

156 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

emotional over that one. AND THAT IS SOMETHING
FOR AN ENGLISHMAN TO ADMIT. YES, SIR. Mr.
Loomis, if that had a been a couple of pages longer,
I'd have had to pull me much-stained hankie out of
me pocket and dabbed me eyes instead of wiping
the beer off me beard. And same goes for you, tho
not quite as much, L. Ron Hubbard. Say I must be
turning into a sob sister. Pass me a pint, and let’s
wash this out of my system.

And that, for some unearthly reason, brings to mind
an omission of mine. When writing to you about
English FEN groups, I forgot our anarchistic, un-
organised, band of brethren who congregate at the
White Horse, Fetter Lane, London, E.C.4, every Thurs-
day evening. Known as the LONDON CIRCLE more
by force of outside persuasion than their own choice.
The officer of the — er — unorganisation is Frank Fears,
6 Feme Park Mansions, Feme Park Road, Crouch End,
London, who will be glad to receive correspondence
and pass it on to other non-members of this non-
organisation for replies, etc.

And any lad or lassie from the USA — or any other
part of the world — who finds him/herself in London
will be welcomed by the biggest bunch of fans that
the UK has congregated in one spot. They will meet sf
and fantasy authors — A. C. Clark, Will Temple, Edi-
tors Carnell and Gillings — and many other folk there.
A fine bunch — and altho they seem to be fanatically
anti-organisation, the output of that bunch is the
biggest in the UK. And my apologies to the LONDON
CIRCLE if any of the above comments may be con-
sidered offensive — but you know me, chums. Yer ole
pal, Ken. No flowers by request. I gotta face that
bunch come October and my next leave. Cor, stone
the crows.

Getting back in this equally unorganised letter to the
TWS-SS combine — let me say here and now, that
should Captain Future ever put in a re-appearance, I’ll
send a flock of my tame ghouls, with two or three
atom bombs apiece, to Suite 1400. And that goes for
all those letter writers who ask for him too. If funds
are sufficient, and the market good enough, how about
putting out a FANTASY mag. making TWS strictly
S.F., and STARTLING in between? Now theres an
idea — and it's all yours, gratis. — 13 Gp. R.P.C., B.A.O.R .
5.

As if we didn’t have troubles enough with
two more-or-less stf magazines draped
gracelessly around our size seventeen-and-
a-half neck. Well, we’re only trying to live
up to the Taurus sign we were born under.
Actually, Mr. Esquire, no pure (!) fantasy
magazine has managed to survive long of
recent years. Apparently those mundane folk
with sufficient scratch to buy such a gazette
prefer to feel that their stories latch onto to
something somehow.

Your London Circle sounds fine — wish we
could fly over some Thursday. We know a
number of the lads outside of yourself via
the correspondence route and would like to
make it more personal. Your remarks about
the riveted pants on the August cover are
duly noted and filed away — yes, we said
filed.

WE’LL BITE AGAIN— WHAT?

by W. Paul Ganley

Dear Editor: Re the Aug. '48 Issue: I have a problem.
It is about the novel. I happen to know that the
nearest star is about four light years distant and that
star is not Velorum. Then that is more than four
light years away. Therefore: It takes them four

years (or more) to get back, they can stand only six
months with a human being, and they go back WITH
A MAN. The time would be greater if they went less
than light speed, and they cannot exceed It, says
science. Well, c’mon, what happened?

Outside of this, it was okay. I will use the old
system, and give it a B-plus. Bradbury second, with
B. Will Jenkins — What!!!! Him in third place? No IN
— Captured a B— for good style. CLIMATE — INC.,
IONIAN CYCLE and H. K. can battle it out for a C-
plus.

Mrs. St. Clair has a C— it was Oona’s best — THE
DEVIL etc. the same — by th’ way, I did like Bud
(’scuse me while I make out my will) — and MEM-
ORY, the only rotten apple in the bunch, gets a Z — .

The best Letter in THE READER SPEWS was by Van
Couvering; the one to which I was most indifferent,
Sigler’s. The cover was good, except for the heavy
metal spacesuit. I like Bergey.

The earliest ish I have is April ‘47. Have you any
back issues? And who is Cap Future? A book? A mag?
Or perhaps, from comments I’ve heard, it’s a comic
book. I dunno. It warn’t a bad ish, just average — 119
Ward Road, N. Tonawanda, N. Y.

In answer to you ZYTZTZ question — we
feel that, buoyed up by being en route to
home at last, the ZYTZTZies felt they would
be able to stand the gaff — or should we say
gaffer, as our hero had done a bit of aging
by that time?

We do not have back issues to spare, alas.
But perhaps some kindly and unavaricious
will write you now that he knows you want
them. CAPTAIN FUTURE was for several
years the stout companion magazine for
TWS and SS. And its Curt Newton novels
the quintessence of space opera.

NAUSEA GNAWS ON YOU

by Wally Weber

Letter Editor: We have before us an interesting

situation. We have before us the nauseous prospect of
living in a world contaminated with science-fiction in
greater and more intense quantity. We have before
us a menace unequaled by any previously occurring
threat to our existence. We have before us more of
this crud.

This latest move on the part of Standard Magazines
Incorporated to increase the output of science -fiction
per month has proven that they do not want their
offices cluttered up with stf. If they did. they would
keep it all to themselves instead of allowing it to
fall into the hands of the public. But this is not all
of the story. This invidious group of publishers means
to ruin civilization itself!

Reflect for a moment. What will be the consequence
of the publication of a larger magazine? Obviously,
the public will read more. As the publication increases
in size and frequency, thousands of people will neglect
their social obligations so that they will have time to
read and write letters to the editor. Civilization will
crumble because the public will be so busy reading
and writing that no time will be available to keep so-
ciety going.

People will become sickly, their health ruined be-
cause they did not have the time to eat or sleep.
Even the blind will not be spared, for they will soon
die from overwork resulting from their efforts to bury
the dead that litter the streets near magazine stands
and mail boxes. And the reason for all of this is still
more sinister than the results explained thus far.

First of all, dig through your collection of pulps
until you have uncovered the August '48 issue of TWS.
Then turn to page number 132. Now read the last
paragraph of the letter by Mary Jane Gholson which
appears in the second column. Now read the last four
lines of the editor’s comment. Do you see the horrible
significance?

Mary Jane merely suggested that the editor was
Marchioni and the editor Immediately leaped to the
defensive. His words fairly radiated a fear that his
identity had been discovered; he ended with the
threat, “Seriously, lay off our anonymity!”

Now think, why would the editor be afraid that peo-
ple would think he was Marchioni? He has absolutely
no reason for such a fear. Many persons would feel it
an honor to be Marchioni. Only one conclusion can

157

THE READER SPEAKS

be drawn. The editor mistook the name Marchioni for
the word macaroni! Certainly you see It now. The
macaronis are taking over the world!!

It is dear, now, what became of Sergeant Saturn
and his faithful companions. Bravely they must have
stood, four things against an overwhelming horde of
slithering macaronis, as they fought a courageous bat-
tle to save a civilization that had shunned them. I
plead with you— do not allow this tragic injustice to
go unavenged!

Strike now before it is too late! Rebel against the
tyranny of the invaders! Even now I can hear the
restless movements of thousands of tiny, loathsome
bodies in the pantry. Listen closely — you may be able
to hear them, too. Fight now or you loose vour free-
dom of the macaronis!! — Box 858, Ritzville, Washington.

Webster’s New International Dictionary,
Second Edition, Unabridged, lists the follow-
ing under the topic above treated —

MACARONI; of uncertain origin Cf macaroon. 1.) A
kind of paste, composed chiefly of wheat flour, dried in
the form of slender tubes, and used, when cooked, as
food. Cf spaghetti, vermicelli.

2. ) a One of a class of traveled young men affecting
foreign ways — first used in England about 1760. b
Hence, an exquisite, a fop. c pi U. S. Historical. A
body of Maryland soldiers in the Revolutionary War,
wearing a gay uniform.

3. ) In the West Indies, Mexico etc., the silver Mex-
ican two-real piece or its equivalent. Obs.

4. ) A rock hopper or crested penguin. See Rock
Hopper.

5. ) A medley; something droll or extravagant.

Personally, we prefer definition 4.). If we
aren’t a rock hopper, what are we?

MAG SAG

by Julian Snyder

Dear Editor:

1 see where the mag

Is beginning to sag

With pages and will cost two bits

If Oona you’ll strangle

My dough I’ll untangle

Just to keep reading your hits

Finlay is great
There’ll be no debate
And Stevens is wonderful too
Just can’t help fighting
What Margaret is writing
Please let it end up in the flue

1 was very happy to see Noel Loomis back, long may
he wave. While Mr. Zytztztztz. . . .wasn’t as good as
the City of Glass it easily bettered Iron Men. This
story, however, must end up in a dead heat with
Kuttner's little epic.

Unlike the great majority of your readers I don’t
like Hank’s novels — nor do I play favorites. I don’t
like his short stories either. Happy Ending is the
first good thing he’s done since A Million Years to
Conquer (which by the way is one of the best things
you have ever published).

The Ionian Cycle was a fine refreshing change of
fare. Climate- Incorporated has been done before,
though not any better. The O. Henry ending saved
Memory from the ranks of the drab. Unfortunately
nothing could save The Rotohouse. It wasn’t terrible,
but (the foregoing is to be read thus: "Her face

wouldn’t stop a clock but”).

Bradbury always makes good reading and no fur-
ther comment is necessary. Leinster is one of my top
favorites but no more like Regulations please. Fitz-
gerald has greatly improved on the Bud Gregory tripe
though I don’t see how he could help it.

What are the pics on pp 9 and 15 supposed to rep-
resent???

If anyone thinks that by writing this letter I have
committed a semantic misdemeanor, I agree. — 5000 N.
Troy St., Chicago 25, Illinois.

Well, we’ll reply in kind — or is unkind the

word for it? Here goes —

The curvacious leavin’s

of Artist Verne Stevens

On p-p-s fifteen and nine

May not make much sense

to the authors intents

But as drawings we liked them just fine.

So why should we care ,

Let it get in our hair

That the subject’s dragged in by the heels?

We only wish we

Were like Zytztz, carefree ,

Amid damsels as sinuous as eels.

However, after viewing the above, we won-
der if most of you aren’t a bit tired of our
continuing to carry on with the semantics.

THE MODEL BEM

by Marion "Astra" Zimmer

Dear Editor: Permit me to remark, that I am p leased
with the cover of the August, 1948, issue of TWS. Not
because of the transparent Space-suit the girl is wear-
ing, but because of the fact that the transparent space-
suit is portrayed. Usually the space-suit has to be
taken for granted in its transparency. I still hate your
BEMS — or rather, Bergey’s Bems, for I’m quite sure
YOU don’t either draw them or serve as model, con-
trary to some expectations.

Please! Who were the three babes drawn by Finlay
(?) for MR. ZYTZTZ GOES TO MARS? I don’t re-
member a woman in the story at all! In fact, there
weren’t any! Excellent story, though. I like that type
of tale, making an alien the protagonist, with Old
Earth and its characters being put In a rather sorry
light. It’s more apt to be that way than it is the way
most S-F authors write — i. e. with Earth winning
every ultimate battle.

REGULATIONS, also, was good. Leinster, in fact, is
almost never poor, I’ve found. Oh — how In the deuce
am I supposed to go through the list and say about
all the stories? I won’t do it. Suffice it to say that
I’m pleased to see so many S-F tales. You’ve been
having a bit too much fantasy of late, I think and I’m
glad to see a return to the good old S-F, only more
“slick” than ever before. Orchids to Kuttner for
HAPPY ENDING and to Bradbury for THE EARTH
MEN. One large razz-berry to La St. Clair for the
ROTOHOUSE. It was the worst story St. Clair has
written. I'm sorry to see such trash, for she CAN do
much better. As everyone knows.

Now a note to F. E. Clark.

Poetry is NOT a “free outrush of feeling whatever
form it may take, or how clumsy its rhythm.” Poetry
was first created far back in the days of the Greeks
and the tradition of form and — yes, scansion — was initi-
ated then! Since those days, poetry has been distin-
guished from prose by METRE, RHYME (if needed)
and RHYTHM. Lacking these, it IS NOT POETRY, by
definition, whatever its emotional impact. There is a
difference between creating a new form and monkey-
ing with an old one! Carl Sandburg is not a Poet — he
is writer of lyrical prose. Shelley IS a poet and like-
wise (if you go in for modems) Edna St. Vincent
Millay is a poet, a great poet. Vachel Lindsay and
Alfred Noyes are poets, and so, for your information,
Mr. F. E. Clark, are many of the great fantasy authors,
C. A. Smith and H. P. Lovecraft among others.

And scansion, despite its horrific name and few pos-
sibilities, is the easiest thing in the world to under-
stand — MY English Versification (I wonder if you have
the same book I do) makes It VERY simple. BUT
DON’T CALL FREE VERSE POETRY. IT IS NOTl

Therefore, Mr. Clark:

Go perk up your scansion and shine up your rhyme
For meter is never passe

And though free verse may be printed some of the time
Most of it will be thrown away

158 THRILLING WONDER STORIES

The doggiest dog’grel that ever was typed

Is better than all your free verse

When at Editor's eare for our scansion you griped

I can sympathize with. Ye Ed’s curse.

Well, the fellow who’s stupid and just cannot scan
Will find a new era is here

And the aesthete who tries to throw scansion ash-can
Will be left to bewail in his beer!

Oh, the Editor prints STORIES I do not read
But forever I’ll take his part

For if from synthetic “ free verse” the fans will be freed
He’s a man after my own heart!

Which ought to hold this Clark BEM for awhile. I
really feel strongly about Scansion in verse. Thanks
for squelching him so thoroughly.

And as I have nothing else to talk about, farewell,
dear Editor. WHY IN THE DICKENS DON’T YOU
LET US KNOW YOUR NAME! If we don't call your
name we can’t call you anything but the same old
"Dear Editor”, if being especially affectionate we
might say Dear Ed. "Sarge Saturn” was at least orig-
inal. but EVERY dam mag on the market has an
‘‘Editor’’. If you won’t bring back your by-line, or
tell us your name, at least tell us by what nickname
we can address you! (Nyaaaaaaah — ) — R. F. D. %1
East Greenbush, N. Y.

Sorry, Astra, if you don’t know our name
by this time you’re less of a fan than you
appear to be. It is neither Marchioni nor
Macaroni, however.

While we are inclined to agree with your
views on what is poetry, aren’t you just a
trifle didactic? Actually, it is our suppo-
sition that metred verse, as we know it, came
into being for two definite causes. One — as
lyrics to melodies, picked out on the lyre as
the word lyric itself reveals. Two — as an
aid to memory in a day when there was
virtually no written phrase.

Therefore, without music, we consider
poetry chiefly fit for jest in modern life,
since human memory of words has become
almost non-existent under the impact of
books and libraries. One can do so much
more with prose, metric or otherwise, than
confined within the limits of scansion and
beat. None the less and notwithstanding —

We’ve never possed for purple BEMs
Although it’s oft been hinted
We’d look ideal for delir. trems.

If we were softly tinted.

See what we mean?

DIETZ T.’S

by Franklin M. Dietz Jr.

Dear Editor: Here I am back again, this time with
comment and chatter about the August issue of TWS.

First, THE READERS SQUEAKS, that part of the
mag to which all true fans turn first, was swell, with a
good variety from technical discussions to humorous
letters, humor such as Mr. Van Couvering’s letter.

The lead novel “MR. ZYTZTZ GOES TO MARS” was
great — oh so great. I could rave about it all night, but
I've more of other stuff to talk about, so I won’t. The
story was well written, though, and had an excellent
plot. It was absolutely minus the “war” theme which

we are so plagued with. Its theme was not to try and
show us humans how miserable we are either. Nor
was it that of trying to give us a lesson in how to
make us humans better beings.

1 did notice a couple remarks on how we are short
of a perfect “society", but these were only incidents
of the plot, not the theme, so they became interesting
rather than boring. All in all a swell story, to be re-
membered very much, and hard to forget. More of
Noel Loomis I say. How about it ed?

Sturgeon's novelette “MEMORY” was very good too.
I liked immensely the theories which Mr. Sturgeon
put forth in the story. They seemed very possible,
much more so than some we see in current stories.

And Bradbury’s yam “THE EARTH MEN” was, I
thought, one of the best handled pieces of STFictional
humor to ever come from a pen. Boy, when Ray really
gets down to it, he can turn out some good work.

“CLIMATE— INCORPORATED”, Wesly Long's con-
tribution to the issue, was another very good story,
one of those swell “very-possible -in-the-near-future”
yarns which are hard to forget for quite some time.

The other stories were all good — interesting and en-
tertaining, but I won’t bore you with the details. That
coming increase in the number of pages sounds swell.
I can’t wait. Surely we fans will be glad to plunk
down a quarter for TWS and SS, just so long as we
know we’re getting plenty for our money. And with
the present issue as an example of future issues (I
hope) we will know we are getting our money’s worth.

Finlay's pics, in my opinion, were wonderful as
usual. But naturally. I’m a Finlay fan. I’ll say nothing
about the cover. As usual it’s Bergey, with his she-
males skantily clad.

So that, dear Editor, is my view on the issue. A
wonderful job throughout. We fans hope you keep it
up in the issues to come . — Box A, Kings Park, Long
Island , New York.

Well, we have a sweet tooth at times,
Franklin, so far be it from us to quibble at
such a diet of treacle. Thanks. However, just
to spice things up a bit, let’s turn to —

VULGAR SOUNDS

by Bob Rivenes (rhymes with ravines)

Dear Editor: On delving into your two magazines, I
feel compelled to write you letting you know how a
neophyte feels about your stf publications. On analyz-
ing TWS, I have come to the conclusion that I must
first set down various vulgar sounds and exclamations
phonetically spelled. Since this does not seem to me
the way to advance stf reading, I have refrained from
doing so.

The next step appears to be to criticize the artwork
which is so ably done. My one criticism is that the
first illustration for the lead stories in the July start-
ling and the August TWS have no connection with
the story content.

As to the question of story analysis, I will confine
myself to the August TWS. I think it unfortunate
that three of the stories dealt with landing on Mars.

The best story of the issue was (is) THE EARTH
MEN by master of the weird if not of stf, Ray
Bradbury. I am convinced that I don’t want to be the
first on Mars.

MR. ZYTZTZ GOES TO MARS and Kuttner’s scram-
bled HAPPY ENDING ran a dead heat for second.
CLIMATE— INCORPORATED, THE DEVIL OF EAST
LUPTON, VERMONT and the IONIAN CYCLE won
fourth, fifth, and sixth. The remainder come a con-
fused last.

What’s BEM? Boobs en masse ? — 122 W. Lamme,
Bozeman , Montana.

Oh, no — not again! Well, a BEM is a bug-
eyed monster, such as seen on the covers of
early and primitive stf magazines, you cad!

NEOPHYTE FROM DIXIE

by L. N. Crimmins

Dear Editor: Have just finished the August issue of
TWS and must say that your mag is improving all of

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■the time, with the exception of the covers. I particu-
larly liked your lead novel — Mr. Zytztz Goes to Mars.
It was one of the best I have read about the meeting
of two individuals from different worlds.

Happy Ending and The Earth Men vie for second
place as both were highly enjoyable and had some-
tiling to say. On the same platform with the above
two was The Devil of East Lupton Vermont. As for
the others I did not particularly care for them, with
the Rotohouse being, by far, the worse of the lot.

The interior pics, with Finlay taking first place,
were much better than the usual inside illos. Taking
everything into consideration, I think that your mag is
making excellent progress.

Although I have been reading Science Fiction for
many years, and have noted the fan clubs continually
sprouting up in many places, there are, with little ex-
ception, very few readers, or should I say very few
readers that write in from the southern part of the
United States. Are we that retrogressive?

This, as you no doubt have been able to see, is the
first time I have written you a letter, but with the
current Let’s-Go-Southemers cry ringing in my ears,
I hope it shan't be the last. — 1682 N. Broad , New Or -
leans, La.

Glad you liked the issue, L.N. And we
hope publication of your letter brings you
some Louisiana fan response.

MELLOW FELLOW

by Frank Evans Clark

Dear Ed : After the cracks you made about my letter
in the August TWS, it seems to me that you’re in line
for a stinging rebuttal but you have put me in such a
mellow mood through the fine stories in this issue that
I haven’t the heart to rebuke you. So you get off easy.

The finest story was “Happy Ending” by Hank Kutt-
ner, the Fair-haired One. Second best was the one by
that other tow-headed kid, Ray Bradbury (Have you
ever heard a word against Bradbury?).

I was particularly pleased to see Theodore Stur-
geon’s name on your contents page, but his story dis-
appointed me. I was hoping for some fantasy from
Mr. Sturgeon, I thought his characterization of Phyllis
Exeter was a little heavy-handed, but at least he tried
to characterize. Please give us more of Sturgeon's
work. And Heinlein.

Oh, and please, L. Ron Hubbard, too.

Mr. Zytztz was good and so was the Ionian Cycle.

By the way, back circa 1944-45, I read several stories
giving a single reference to “the ill-fated expedition to
Io”, without any further amplification. It struck me as
unusual that several different authors would all refer
to the same fictitious disaster (reminiscent of Love-
craft’s wide-spread Necromonicon) .

Was there ever any story about an “Ill-fated ex-
pedition to Io” that became so famous that it became
accepted as a part of stf history as have- the planet
Vulcan end the bulgers? This has been preying on my
mind for a long time, so please enlighten me if you
can.

One hundred eighty pages and the return of La
Brackett, sound wonderful ! Just keep the story qual-
ity up. Oh, to finish out the issue: Climate Inc. and
Fitz’s story were only average. The Rotohouse was
poor.

A word about the sexy pics; I’m getting fed up on
them!

Glad to see Chaddo’s opinion on jazz. I’m a fanatical
Dixieland man myself, but I can stomach some of the
milder bop, too.

So you like Lou McGarrity? As the trombone is my
favorite instrument to listen to, I’d like to put in a
good word for Vic Dickinson, Eddie Edwards, Kid Ory
and Jack Teagarden, all fine men, and also the peer of
them all, Georg Brunis. (That’s the way he wants his
name spelled; says it’s lucky according to the stars.)

It’s good to hear that you’re putting your foot dowp
on the one -man -to -save -the world -stories. How about
putting a little accent on beautiful fantasy?

Chris Keller’s letter was just what you needed. I
hope you get many more of the same. — 113 Central
Avenue, Baldwin, New York.

Students — how about helping out Mr.
Clark on that Io business? We are as much

in the dark as he is. So let us know, if any-
one does.

And while naming fine trombone players,
Frank, don’t forget Miff Mole, J. C. Higgin-
bottom and — when he wants to forget com-
mercialism, Tommy Dorsay. Also Sidney de
Paris and a whole flock of other brilliant
technicians whose names momentarily escape
us. Also the late Glen Miller, the equally late
George Troop and the entire three-man
trombone section Don Redman’s band sported
back in 1932-3. Confidentially, we think Jack
Teagarden is the best of the lot by a country
mile.

FLOPPEROO

by Lin Carter

Hi yuh: Sure an’ it pains my little heart to be say in’
this, chum, but you sure flopped with the August num-
ber. First there was that aw-ful cover, then the poor
lead story, then a bunch of mediocre shorts. Loomis
wrote one good novel, CITY OF GLASS, and that was
very good. And after that, nothing but hack. This
one had a flimsy plot, awkward characterization, and
unpolished development.

Let me elucidate a bit: most of the fuss and bother
was whether or not the Zytzies were human or not.
It was finally decided that, since they didn’t have
eyes, they weren’t human. Very clever deduction . . .
they also didn’t have arms, legs, heads, mouths, and a
few other such incidentals.

Another thing that rubbed me the wrong way, was
that they tried so hard to get back in the Air Marines.
Apparently, the fact that they had gained immortal
glory by being the first men to conquer space and set
foot on three planets, just wasn’t important.
HRUMPH!

Regulations was readable, but really didn’t fit TWS
at all. Kuttner’s short story was the one bright light
in the whole issue. Ah, Hank, ah luv yah! I had to
read it twice before I got the inverted plot structure
straight. And Memory was quite good. Sturgeon is
versatile, I’ll say that much for him! Bradbury's yam
was typical of Brad, but the Long novelet was weak.
Nice reading, tho. And for the love of Poo, get Mrs.
St. Clair off those horrible Oona and Jick things,
willya?

The Reader Speaks was his usual hoarse self. Some
very good, some veiy bad, most very dull. Oliver,
Ebey, Coevering and some others are your best. Hah.
I wundered how many folks were gonna pun that Dud
thing!

I note with great approval the new type you use in
the headings. Veddy, veddy nize. . . .all we need now
is a new Contents Page set-up. ' Cnest ce pas? Till
then. — 1734 Newark St. So. St. Pete, Fla .

Apparently the entire Loomis story went
over your oblate cranium, Lin. So let’s just
skip the whole business, shall we?

BOP FOR REBOP

by Jim Leary

Dear Ed: As if your life didn’t contain enough mis-
ery I am now adding to your present burden with my
review of the latest TWS. For you, there is no escape.
Just be grateful that I don’t write in verse — as yet.

The Editorial — very good. I don’t imagine that any-
one misses the Xeno and Wartears stuff with a replace-
ment like this. I’ll be looking forward to the edi-
torials in future issues, as will a lot of other fans.
Just as a suggestion though, don’t get in too deep.
That is to say, leave the technical details of atomic
power alone, and concentrate on the “human interest”
angle of various problems. That way you'll have a
greater and more varied audience. Keep the technical
stuff in its own allotted magazines, say I.

The stories — they’re all so good that I can’t rate

them. That Kuttner short just goes to show you that
a fresh twist can still be worked in on the time travel
theme. As for the cover painting for "The Ionian
Cycle,” this is one time that the readers can’t say
that Bergey didn’t put a spacesuit on the gal, because
he did — and what a suit!

Pics — Why don’t you kick out Napoli and get some
good artists? More Finlay would be appreciated, es-
pecially on lead novels. You could have him do four
or five full -page drawings (with borders) for each
novel. They couid be scattered throughout the story.

The Reader Sneaks — Chad Oliver — Why don’t you
stick to one subject? first you mention jazz, then you
speak of bop. Tsk Tsk! You sound like someone
dropped some Armstrongs on your head and knocked
you dizzy — or maybe they were Bigards?

Van Couvering — Is your memory poor, or is it that
you just don’t give a darn?

Russell Clagget — -Elf on a baton, indeed! This only
goes to show that you don’t have to be crazy to write
to TRS, but it helps.

Frank Evans Clark — Don't let the Editor get you
down. You’re right on free verse being more accepted
nowadays. Jn real poetry, an author can’t hide his
lack of feeling behind meter if it isn’t there. Of
course, the Editor’s just a hack anyway, so. . . . Nasty
little fella, ain’t I?

David Wesser — H 0 SO 4 — That’s goodby in any lan-
guage.— i7l8 ForestHills Road, Rockford, Illinois.

You’re right about that — so good-by! How-
ever, you did state our policy on editorials
exactly.. Certainly the impact of science on
humanity is as vital as the impact of hu-
manity on science. Now — good-by again.

COMMUNIQUE

by Jerri Bullock

Hi, Ed: Maybe I’ve been working for the Navy too
Jong, but anyway here's my communique: Re ur TWS
dtd June 48 X Received impression at this end that
majority of stories were on the ironic side X Ray
Bradbury did it again X His novelet surpasses Trans-
Galactic Twins, although I’m not complaining about
the latter X

BULLETIN

To: B.L.Randolph

From: Me.

Subj : letter pp 136.

You misunderstood my letter, Billie, and looking
back over it I can’t say I blame you. By active fan ,
in that case, I meant active TWS & SS fan — not the
entire stf field. I co-edit one mag, and draw for a
couple of others; and will be a member (I hope) soon
of the N3F.

Back to TWS. Before I sign off, let me say “Consu-
late” was a very catchy story. When I started to read
it, I thought it was crummy; halfway through, I found
my opinion being reversed. When I had finished I
found I’d really enjoyed it. It just creeped up and hit
me over the head I guess. Oh well, I’ve always been
told I had holes in my head. Over and out — 22200
Lemon Ave., Hayward, Calif.

Why not fill out another application for
consular service, Jerri, since you liked the
Penntale so much?

OTTAWATOMIE

by J. Nick Wickenden

Dear Editor: (Gee, how I hate that “Dear Editor”!

Sometime I’ll say it in Martian, “Kaor, Zombi” in-
stead.) Forthwith, I pass hurriedly over the tales in
the latest TWS.

MISTER ZIT-ZIT &c: (That’s as close as I can come

to its pronunciation) I thought (Oh, yes I can too
think) that it was not an extraordinary tale, although
passable. The fault was in its characterization. Rate
6 / 10 .

MEMORY: Well done! 7.5/10 for the surprise ending.

CLIMATE-INCORPORATED: Not as good as Memo-
ry, but all right. The time machine intrigues me.
6 . 5 / 10 .

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I fit ADDRESS ,

THE IONIAN CYCLE: A happy tie with “Regula-

tions” for first place. Unusually good! 8/10.

REGULATIONS: Always good things to follow.

Somehow I am a sucker for Leinster, so I give it 8/10.

HAPPY ENDING: Unusual, I thought when I read
the end. The perfect foil for people who always peek
at the last part of a story. Ingenious! On top of that,
a super tale with a terrific wallop. 7-5/10.

THE EARTH MEN: It had poor characterization, or

else it would have been on top Only 6/10.

THE DEVIL OF EAST LUPTON, VERMONT: The
worst in the issue. 5/10.

THE ROTOHOUSE: Ha, Tee hee. Snicker. Hoho.

Belly laugh. HEE HEE. AHA. HA HA HA HA. &c.
71&/10. I like Jick and Oona.

THE COVER: The girl looks in pain. The BEM seems
to cause the FEM distress. Why is this? Your chival-
ry. Bergey. Erase, the monsters, and put the damsel
out of distress! Worth 6/10.

THE PIX: Stevens is crazy. He puts three fair

maids for a heading, when the story, Mister Zit-zit, has
no girls in it. How much of a wolf can you be??
Kelvin on Page 46 looks just like my math teacher.
Page 119 was a good illustration, but not suited for
the humor story. Kiemle does Jick and Oona up
better.

I HATE NAPOLI. I HATE NAPOLI. I HATE
NAPOLI.

THE LETTERS are dismissed with a brief Haha! for
Couvering. *

No, I do not know Ron Anger though I would
like to.

NOW — Here is the story

Of what I have done.

My reason for failure
Is only just one.

(2) Whenever I met one
Who seemed to be ripe
To start reading SF
Instead of just tripe ,

(3) I’d give him a build-up
Ana loan him a mag

And have lots of fun whilst
Of SF Vd brag.

(4) But then when his Ma
Saw the dame on the

cover

She wouldn’t let him
read it

And Vd lose another .

(5) Take the dame off the cover
Remove my gripe one,

Then I'll sell Science- fiction
And have me some fun!

— 72 Gwynne Avenue, Ottawa , Ontario.

Better write Steven on wolfism. And
thanks for liking Jick and Oona. You’ll have
to struggle along with the covers for awhile,
though.

IT’S COT US

by R. F. Dykeman

Dear Ed: ... well, now how did this get in here?

Wonder Stories was superb, yes?

Living up in full to last months blurb , quis?
Really, think I you have the crop’s cream.

Please don’t in the future let us dream,

That you’ll with malicious aforethought.

Regress way off the beam.

And down your up and kick the lean,

And hungry readers of the mag

Full in the teeth with quality of downward sag.

That should be,

Returned via mail-bag,

To authors smug, with heads held high ,

Who’re in a rut
And ought to die;

So see you now, and harken by.

The words of lowly scribes.

Such as I;

And keep it up and mix it up,

And give us only choicest pie.

I go now and presently drop dead.— R. D. #5, Glen-
side, Ithaca, N.Y.

Okay, there, Dykeman, we shall try
To give you not a thing but pie —

From nesselrode with chocolate chips
To lemon topped with meringue dips
Via the entire chiffon tribe
Of types too many to describe
And apple plain and deep dish too
And cherry with ambrosial hue
And pork and pigeon, chicken , whew !

And beef and kidney full of goo
And — holy cow! — it must be true
Fm getting hungry, how are you?

Bring on the bicarbonate of soda, nurse!
Hey, Nurse HI

FIRST IN TEN

by Ricardo DeGeorge

Dear Editor: For over ten years I have been an ar-
dent STF and Fantasy fan, but this is my first letter
to a magazine. I am interested in joining a fan club,
if possible, and I would greatly appreciate letter's from
anyone wishing to discuss science fiction and fantasy.
Having completed my Merritt collection, I have several
duplicates which I am interested in trading for works
of A. E. van Vogt, H. G. Wells, and others. Anyone in-
terested please get in touch with me by mail.

Three cheers for whoever is responsible for length-
ening the mag to 189 pags. Now how about a hundred-
page Kuttner novel. If given the time, he could pro-
duce works comparable to any of the old “masters”.
As for the stories:

Mr. Zytztz Goes to Mars — I quote from the contents
page, “A NOVEL of the future.” Frankly, I’ve read
longer short stories. What there was of it was quite
good. Why do humans always turn out to be such
rats?

Memory — The author forgot to explain that won-
derful density process. Very vague. Characterization
good.

Climate-Incorporaled — So it was a time-machine,
huh! Let’s not carry a good thing loo far.

The Ionian Cycle — Lfisoti chelofh vidwurkdaywlnf.

In Ogilvy Basic Language Pattern, 6 V 2 . this means”

Regulations — Did this guy write the “Disciplinary
Circuit”.

Happy Ending — Typical Kuttner touch. The man is
another Keith Hammond.

The Earth Men — So, so.

The Devil Of East Lupton, Vermont — So, so.

The Rotohouse — So.

The Reader Speaks — Better and better.

Since everybody writes poems:

THE QUEST FOR MARS
I

In a place of squalor at the end of earth ,

A peasant woman to a boy gave birth.

His face was ugly but his limbs were long,

And in his heart there played a song.

> U

To Mars, to Mars, 1 must go,

Swift as an arrotu shot from a boio.

Through storm and danger and loneliness of space.
My song will carry me to that place.

III

To a place in Central Asia high among the distant stars,
A young earthbound man wandered with his heart on
distant Mars,

From that valley in the mountains to the blue of
desert skies,

Stood a shimmering sphere of metal with radar for
its eyes.

IV

Skyward, skyward, ever skyward above the farthest
tread of man,

162

The silver sphere climbed ever higher in its all-em-
bracing span,

In the simple metal cabin sat a man with single
thought,

“From the ignorance of poverty to this place of honor
have 1 fought.”

V

In a twisted mass of metal on the planet that he sought.
Lay a solitary body which a song to Mars had brought ,
He had reached a distant planet, first of all the human
race,

And when a bem ripped off his helmet, it found a
smile upon his face.

— 269 East 194 St., Bronx 58, New York.

You leave us in wonder, Ricardo DeGeorge,
for when your young hero crashed into a
gorge to lie smashed with an asinine grin
on his pan, did the BEM perchance know his
next meal was a man?

WELL, WELL— PROSE!

by Mrs. Eva Firestone

Amigo: Copied following from a text book by J. H.
Thirring. Seems to answer my querie in Sept. SS.

“The world’s surface taken as a whole is a spherical
surface of immense extension, and is studded with
many small shallow humps, having the stars as their
centres. - The average distances between neighboring
fixed stars are very small compared with die girth of
the universe, and hence those parts of the world’s
surface between neighboring stars can be looked upon
as almost plane.”

Here is my report on Aug. TWS — Mr. Zytztz (HOW
do you pronounce it) Goes to Mars- 93 (r ; Happy End-
ing- 90; The Devil of East Lupton, Vt. 85; The Ionian
Cycle- 83 (better with love omitted); Regulations- 80;
Climate-Incorporated- 70 (mushy); The Rotohouse-
couldn’t get interested in this one; Earth Men- a
Defeatist story- by an author with talent, who is
selling his birthright for a mess of pottage.

It would be wonderful, if Bradbury used his art to
raise the morale of humanity. Especially liked your
answer to D. R. Smith. What happened to Michael
this time? Would like to see a story in TWS by Ray-
mond F 1 . Jones. He wrote- The Children’s Room, a
real classic, beautiful Stf.

Something else in connection with above eopy-
“Minkowski showed that according to the special theory
of relativity, space itself plays only the part of a
shadow. Just as the shadow of a body is different in
magnitude according to the surface on which it falls,
so the space taken up by any object is different in size
according to the state of motion of the system of refer-
ence from which it is seen. . . . As a surface is only a
two-dimensional part of three-dimensional space, so
space itself is not an independent whole, but only a
three-dimensional part of the four-dimensional world
(entire spacetime-entity ) .” I would sincerely appre-
ciate a letter from some one, who is able to explain
in simple language (no ninth, please) this “entire
space -time -entity.” — Uptown, Wyoming.

The space-time entity is simple enough in
theory — although we don’t wonder at your
confusion, Mrs. Firestone, from the examples
you cite. The entire basis of fourth-dimen-
sional reasoning is based upon the very
sound assumption that, to exist in space, an
object must also exist in time as surely as it
must have the inevitable three spatial di-
mensions.

Hence it is generally felt that time must
be a dimension as valid as the three we can
see and feel, even though it lies beyond the
field of our senses. As for Bradbury and his
defeatism we can only cite Abraham Lincoln

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WE THOUGHT THERE WERE
TWO OF THEM

by L. Leon Shepherd

Dear Editor: Have just finished the lead novel, Mr.
Zytztz Goes to Mars , by Noel Loomis. Think it is the
best story I have read recently. As a matter of fact,
it is so good I had to mention it before I started the
beef that prompted this letter. Now that I have men-
tioned it, I will go on with my beef. Here it is —

How come our friend, Don Cox— Ed Cox, both of #4
Spring St., Lubec, Maine, is so omnipotent with his
remarks, re; the April issue, that we are subjected to
two letters, in the same issue, by said Cox, of two first
names, and the same address?

Don’t you have enough hopeful, and, I imagine, just
as omnipotent fans to write you their views, on said
issue? Or, did you slip up???? As a matter of fact
he said substantially the same thing in both letters, so
one should have been skipped even if you didn't notice
the similarity of address. The rest of the "Reader
Speaks" was as usual — up to par, and as interesting
as a second magazine. Maybe, even more so. I always
read it first.

To give you an idea of the seriousness of your afore-
mentioned "mistake": You should have some concep-
tion of how thrilled some of the fans are when they
get a letter published in that dept. My friend and cor-
respondent, Ila Workman of St. George, Utah, had a
letter, for the first time, in the August issue, and was
so thrilled she could hardly contain herself.

You could have made some other Fan happy with
that space. . . . For instance, ME. I have been trying
to make myself heard in TWS for months. Now Editor,
don’t look so hurt: You know everyone has a selfish
motive. (Of which I shall say more later.) However,
I am, at least, honest enough to admit mine.

Now, may I have some space to remark on theory
that the type of stories— usually called classics, by fan-
dom, run by magazines such as yours when they can
get them, carry a message to mankind. If they would
only heed them?

The lead novel this issue carries it to some extent.
It touches upon the penalties that we pay for stubborn,
narrow, entirely human and selfish stands we take
upon a course of action that we probably, if we ex-
amine it closely, do not believe in ourselves. Yet we
continue to uphold such stands, in our societies, our
governments, our everyday lives, our business dealings
and, where we shouldn’t, especially in our Churches.

Some of the authors, Hamilton, Kuttner and Phil-
lips, to name a few, do such a good job of getting
such messages over; I think some portions of them
should be sent to Congress to be read into the Record.
However, if some of us should make so bold as to try
it, we could really find out how Democratic??? our
Government really is.

If it were to be mentioned at all, it would be con-
sidered the mouthings of some alleged "DREAMER".
However, I insist, and most "new" readers of these
particular types of stories agree with me, that "The
writing is on the wall" if some of the alleged "dream-
ers" are not listened to.

Perhaps, the "dreamers" are not so busy getting
rich that they have time to think. After all, Socrates,
was considered a dreamer by many, yet people still
know who he is, which is more than will be true of a
lot of the alleged Big Wheels of today, two thousand
years from- now . — 204 East Ryder St., Litchfield, III.

Very true — and if there is only one Cox
and Cox is his prophet, we apologize to all
concerned.

SQUIRREL FOOD IS RIGHT!

by Jim Goldfrank

Dear Ed: May I again compliment you on a swell

issue? Everything is wonderful, but why can’t you
make the damsel on the cover PRETTY? And always

164

besieged by a group of wotzits; that’s bad too? Why
not a little variety? Make the dame the villain. After
all, variety is the spice of Life (the mag).

Kuttner does it againl!! “Happy Ending” was the
most original story in ages. Always glad to see a new
twist.

No, I’m not going to do it! Dam it, I refuse to con-
gratulate you on going bigger. As my friend said, *Td
like to see SS and TWS in the 15c size but monthly.”

So 1*11 end with this thought
Tho it’s not very sad
To read Thrilling Wonder
You've got to be mad!

Sqirrel food that is. — 1116 Fulton Street, Woodmere ,
N. Y.

A girl as the villain
Effective can he
As was proved by one H. Rider
Haggard in “ She ”

This is really the poet’s corner this ish.
How come? Everybody go crazy or some-
thing? Oh, well. . . .

AND HERE’S ANOTHER

by Frances Keysor

Dear Ed: Regarding the August TWS: I have looked
thru my synonyms for something to describe the issue,
but I can’t do any better than the Mag’s title — Thrill-
ing Wonder Stories! Very, Very good — ab ovo usque
ad mala. (Don’t pull any of this on me, I had to look
it up!)

Mr. Z. was — aw shucks, I'm at a loss for adjectives.
Anyway to use a very feminine one, delicious. The
same applies to the Earth Men. In fact, all were good,
The Roothouse coming last on the list The Gregory
stories took a beating toward the last. I’ll take them
in preference to Oona, myself.

The cover wasn’t true to the story. An Avian should
have come out of the egg instead of a burrower. And,
is the expression on the girl's face supposed to show
how she looked when she got her brilliant idea, or did
she bust a strap?

Finlay’s illos are always the best. Who did those for
Memory and Mr. Z.? They are good, too.

TRS is, as usaul, my first stop. I read it on the way
home from the magazine stand. I’ll bet some people
wonder if I’m nuts. I stop and laugh every few min-
utes. I think I’ll make a scrap book of the fenpo (fan
poetry to you) and Edipo answers. Would make a
good morale builder on a bad day!

Maybe I’m a little late to get into the Lovecraft ar-
gument, but after reading it pro and con for so long
and not being able to recall having read any such (I
don’t remember authors very good, not unless they
are drummed into me — like Captain Future!) I bought
a pocket book edition of Lovecraft. My opinion. — it's
terrible — just like the foul things he wrote aboutl

Now here is something that worries me. Fantasy is
fairy tales for grownups, no? Then why do I never
see Thorne Smith mentioned. After all, I think he
did some good fantasy. Or was he too ribald and
therefore unmentionable? What is the average age of
the fen anyway? There! That's off my chest, even if
I did step off the deep end.

Here’s my little scienotation for now. On a recent
motor trip into Northern California, and during an
all night driving session, I noticed that when motor-
ists pulled off the road for that much-needed nap, far
more parked under a tree than did in the open. Is this
a not quite dead instinct to seek the shelter of the
treetops in the dark of night? Check on this, fans, and
verify it. And now, Dear Ed., I leave you with this
tantalizing quatrain:

I have built my castles in the air,

High in the fleecy clouds and azure blue —

Now I but stand and gaze at the beauty there
For 1 forgot to build a stairway too!

— 7 108 Albany St., Huntington Park, Calif.

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They say that old Robinson Crusoe
Was an acrobat, one of the best

For he rowed ashore in a dinghy
And then sat down on his chest.

But now we can cheer Frances Keysor
As an intriguing concept occurs
Her chestacrobatics top Crusoe’s

For she stepped off the deep end of hers.

What did you use, Frances — a trampoline?
And it does seem to us we’ve given a huzzah
or too to Thorne Smith in these columns.
Certainly we got a lot of laughs out of his
works — especially Night Life of the Gods. As
for your motorists — weren’t they seeking tree
bottoms rather than tree tops? Sounds like
that old and tiresome quest for roots to us —
maybe a search for root beer.

COMES TIME

by Thomas Beck

Dear Editor: Since I've been reading TWS for over
five years, I thought that it’s about time that I wrote
you a letter to “The Reader Speaks”. I would like to
start off by commenting on your new policy of Higher
Prices. All I can say Is that it never should have been
done, mainly due to the fact that THRILLING WON-
DER STORIES and STARTLING STORIES have been,
up ’til now, the best STF magazines for fifteen cents
and, by raising the prices, you may have destroyed the
faith and affeetion that your many followers have had
for years. x.

As for me, 1 Njld continue buying both of my
favorite mags, even if they were mimeographed. Of
course, if raising the price means better stories and
more illustrations, then I’M with you 100%, because
the quality of the stories that have been printed up
until a year ago was way below par compared with
the material that is being published now.

Furthermore, if we are to have a longer reader’s
column, then let’s have some letters that are capable
and worthwhile reading instead of the inane drivel
that sometimes seems to hit us like a plague and often
lasts for several issues.

In reading a few issues back, I was actually sur-
prised at The Reader Speaks for containing practically
100% per cent letters, letters that were worth reading,
informative and kept, at least, this reader interested;
now, it has gone back to its “Sergeant Saturn” routine
again, which always reminds me of “Why Vaudeville
Flopped”.

It seems as if some letter writers seem to write
nothing but “How nice the magazine looks” and “Keep
up the good work with those stories” and “Why don’t
you trim the edges” AND “All the pictures were nice
except the one on page 13, it looked as if the artist
was drawing with his fist.” A-N-D “Hey! Sarge, I
have a poem, “Roses are red, violets are blue, but
what does Bergey use for paint, Goo?”

It is such material that is ruining the letter columns
of both TWS and SS, and the less we have of it, the
better all normal minded readers will appreciate you
and the company for which you are working. Of
course, everybody likes good humor, but it should be
in the right places and in the right proportion, and
not carried to excess, unless some readers want a
comic book instead of a publication of good contem-
porary literature.

Enough of that for now. I would like to ask you
Why! OH! Why! you do not ever print letters from
fans who like to swap Fantasy mags and books? You
must undoubtedly realize that swapping is the acme
of fandom today and if it had not been for swappers,
the STF and fantasy world would not have been so
great as it is today, and your two mags would not
have been so well known; for there are parts of the
English speaking world that do not have access to fan-
tasy mags at all, and if it were not for the interna-
tional system of correspondence amongst fans, they

166

would never be able to get the wonderful reading
matter that we have here In the U. S.

I should like to be the first one to break the ICE by
putting in a plug for myself. I am a swapper and I
nave loads of fantasy, and I am willing to trade as
much of it as possible, and if I could, all of it. I have
over 300 fantasy titles by Merritt, Burroughs. England,
Victore Appleton. MacLure, Haggard and many others.
All I am interested In swapping is for fantasy. There.
I’ve said It and I am glad, even if you don’t print
my letter. — 1 1 6 West 45th Street, New York 19, N.Y.

Okay, Thomas, we won’t print it. As for
humor, when did it ever appear in comic
magazines? Are you trying to undermine
the social structure, man?

We think you’re a trifle unjust. We have
run many swap pleas in this column and in
its mate, The Ether Vibrates, in SS. In re-
prisal, we hope all your Burroughs grow
Haggard.

MEET THE MRS.

by Mrs. Virginia Maglione

Dear Ed: This is my second fan letter. The first was
written to your companion mag. S.S. It was written in
longhand and I never got over the shock of seeing it
printed. This will prove however that I read both
mags. It will also prove that I can’t type.

Because I neglected to state in the previous letter
that I am a Mrs. I received some riotous letters from
other fans, assuming I was all the way from 6 to 69.
May I apologize herein for the error?

Despite ardent missionary work on my part, my
husband remains unconverted to S. F. yams. Since
he is reasonable however about my enthusiasm over
same I have no complaint.

I regret to say that fans in this area seem scarce. If
it weren't for the fact that the mags, do disappear I
would think that I alone read them.

Needless to say I rejoice to see the Fern, fans out in
full force In the Aug. issue! Ray for same, to the
bems with those who disagree!

And now THE AUG. ISSUE. The cover, oh well
what’s the use? The letters, I turn there first as do
most. It’s always good for a laugh or fight. But may
I air a pet opinion? Those fans who are so quick to
throw stones at the stories should try writing one
themselves. I’ve tried and found it gives you a re-
spect for other people's efforts. I never even got to
the point where i thot the yam was good enough to
send. That does not mean you may or may not like
a story on a personal basis.

I must confess however that I have read so much
S.F. that it takes an unusual story to really fire my
imagination. That’s the trouble with S.F. fans, they’re
60 used to the unusual that they yawn in the face of
the latest inventions with a "yeah we’ve heard all
about that."

Frankly Jeanette Marie Thomas’ letter amazed me.
I had gathered from the letters that nearly all active
fandom were teenagers or very little removed!

And now at long last, the stories. Every single one
was good but of the shorts I believe the Earth Men
tops the list. With each one I have an urge to say,
“If the others weren't so good this would have been
best."

Happy Ending has a neat twist. The Devil of East
Lupton reads like a classic anthology selection. One
gripe tho. I'm very fond of M. St. Clair's work even
that 25th century Claudia, Oona. Please let her do
something different. I have read some of her straight
S.F. and it’s O.K. Oona and Jick are cute and you
can always keep the fans asking for more, but you
can’t revive a series everyone is tired of!

Oh. oh — I see that blue pencil advancing so I’ll fin-
ish. The novelets all pass with high marks. Mr.
Zytztz was just dreamy, a really good lead novel with
some nice sly digs at human ego — very justified too.
Yes, yes I really am going now. expecting another
swell issue next time— Box 97, S. Acton, Mass.

We hope you get it, Virginia — and get your

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husband interested as well. Fans come in all
ages, sizes and social levels, so don’t let any-
thing surprise you where they are concerned.
Write us again.

YIPE! HERE’S ANOTHER!

by Daniel McCobb

Dear Ed:

After many years at last,

I write you, oh Sarge of the past
And though my rimes be somewhat odd ,

I hope to give you a stiff prod.

Bergey, alas, with all his skill,

Is made to paint these horrors still.

Why must there be a shapely fern.

Frightened by a monster grim.

Oh, why must colors ever clash.

And titles make the cover hash-
Some of the tales in August number.

Would soon have one lost in slumber.

Mr. Leinster* s plot’s so old.

It leaves me very, very cold.

While Bradbury was -just too slick.

In fact if made us slightly sick.

We simply cannot understand.

What others see in this odd man.

But don’t think I don’t like your mag,

It’s just some things that make me gag.

Now Sturgeon marched afore the rest,

Though I can’t see how plastic so pressed.
Loomis’ idea seemed fairly good,

At any rate from where 1 stood.

He’s very good at weaving plot,

And Steven’s art helped quite a lot .

And while speaking of artist, friend,

Let’s not see Napoli again.

I hope the tale by William Tenn,

Will start a brand new story trend.

No world savers or killers here,

For which I offer up a cheer.

But ere this rime 1 over do,

I think I’d best bid you adieu.

44-D-Clark Homes, Flagstaff, Arizona.

It’s very well to criticize

And squawk and squeak in rhyme
But must you Ye Ed penalize
And do it all the time?

You’d have us no more save the world
Nor kill nor steal nor rob
In short, what you’d like us to run
Is strictly off McCobb.

FRESH OAR

by Bob Strickler

Dear Ed: May a newcomer to science- fiction put his
oar in The Reader Speaks? Thanks, I shall proceed
to do so. (Do I hear a groan?)

I'l start off by complimenting your stories. I’ve been
reading THRILLING WONDER STORIES for over a
year now and as far as I’m concerned, this was the

AMERICA’S SECURITY IS
YOUR SECURITY!

BUY BONUS

REGULARLY!

168

WAVE

BANDS

test all-around ish I’ve ever read As a matter of
fact, I liked every story — even the St. Clair short. I
think "Mr. Zytztz (whew!) Goes to Mars was best but
"The Ionian Cycle" came In a very close second.
Strange as it may seem. "Regulations.” "Happy End-
ing” and "The Earth Men" all tied for third place.

Right here. I’d like to kick in a word or two about
illustrations. I liked all of them except those on pages
9 and 15. With illos on that order appearing In STF
mags so often, is it any wonder that so many of the
older folks get the idea that STF is pure trash?

Switching over to the Reader Speaks. I’d like to say
that the column you have strikes me as one of the
finest points of the magazine. I always enjoy reading
what other folks have to say about your stories and
letters like that one from John Van Couvering really

f ;lve me a buzz (It may be hack to you. Ed, but I love
t.). v

I was overjoyed to see W1 god sky get several well
needed trouncings. The two Maine boys, Ed Cox and
Russell Woodman, had two of the finest letters in the
mag — I hope you keep it up, fellas. Jeannette Thomas
has a really swell idea. You’ll be hearing from me
soon. keed.

I've been yapping long enough I guess so I’ll take a
powder. I will leave you with this consoling thought
If this is printed, I will write again — -if not. I’ll still
write. — G7J9 Chestnut, Kansas City 5, Missouri.

Frankly, we don’t know whether to feel
consoled or not.

TOO LITTLE TIME

by Guerry Brown

Dear Editor: A considerable length of time has

elapsed since I last wrote a letter to a science-fiction

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magazine. Being away at a boarding school In Palm
Beach was the factor which prevented me from
doing so, as the work was laid on pretty thick and
little time was left for even reading stf, let alone
thinking up epistles myself. (Nicely implied compari-
son there; that my letter-writing requires about the
same amount of thought and effort as does the author-
ing of your stories. Neat, eh?)

But school is done for the summer, the battered text-
books having been gently laid aside in the rubbish
heap, and the haggard young mind being allowed to
recuperate before plunging back into the storm and
strife of next fall. So, I bought a copy of the August
TWS, read it and decided upon a letter of comment
after doing that. And here I am.

Firstly, the news of a further enlargement in size
(and price) is gratifying in the extreme, at least for
the former. Perhaps the change in format can in-
clude nice trimmed edges?

Your editorial was well-put, but it isn’t the whole
works. I don’t think you intended it as such, to cover
all the things people should keep in mind if they
intend to shoot to the planets, but even so that’s only
the background. Motivations and desires derived from
a belief, and others supplementary to it have to be
applied. Faith should be in the background, not
yelling and stomping out in front where it is
ridiculous.

The stories this issue ranged in quality from ex-
tremely poor to extremely good. Filling the first
category is your main story, "Mr. Zytztz Goes to Mars’’.
That you could even consider accepting such a story
surprises me. I thought you had better literary sense
than that! The writing, the plot, the accompanying
Illustrations were all rotten. Loomis tried to put in
clever satire and a touch of pathtfs here and there
and didn’t even begin to get anywhere. Never print
another one like this, please!

"Regulations” was okay, ordinary stuff. “Happy
Ending” pleased me very much. The novel way of
telling the story, the slick clear style and a fine plot
all combined to make it one of the best in the issue.
The characters of Kelvin and the Robot were espe-
cially good. A really swell little tale.

“Memory” was good, except for the last two para-
graphs. I don’t quite grasp the significance of Phyllis’
becoming a window-washer. It seems to me to be a
singularly unappropriate choice of an occupation for
a woman to work out her life in noble selflessness in —
if you follow me.

“The Earth Men” — wonderful! Best story in the
mag. Bradbury Is in a class by himself, as many
others have said before, with an originality and
freshness of style that throws him ahead of other
writers. This is no news to you, I’m sure. The story

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170

was a wonderful little piece of satire. The last two
sentences really provided the kick. A jewel of prose,
no less, if you'll excuse the effulgence. “Climate” —
fairly good, not too original.

"The Devil of East Lupton, Vermont” was a good
short, well done and enjoyable. "The Ionian Cycle"—
fair. "The Rotohou.se’ —pretty good. Artwork was
mediocre throughout, nowhere being as good as it
could have been. Cover especially bad. And let me
second Mr. Oliver's remarks concerning the lead
illusl ration, which has not been in the best taste
lately. Maybe you like those kinds of pics, but that
doesn't necessarily mean that your readers subscribe to
the same views. You can get all the pics of that
kind you like at the comer newsstand.

I was going to say that the Reader Speaks Depart-
ment wasn’t so hot but looking through it revealed
to me that I hadn’t even read most of it. I say now
that it is a good one. what with Oliver. Ebev, Van
Couvering. and assorted others made a very nice
selection, although there were a number of crummy
ones. The majority were readable and amusing, how-
ever. — P. O. Box #146 7, Delray Beach, Florida.

Which brings us to end of the line in the
present space-time continuum. Not a bad
bunch of letters at all, despite the poetry
that makes us sweat out those replies. Well,
don’t think up too many tough ones all at
once for the next round in this battle. So
long until the bell sounds again.

—THE EDITOR.

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T HE self -built-in and interlocking mail-
boxes known chiefly to one another as
the SAPS (some mountainous intellect
or group of same labored long and loudly to
produce something called Spectator Amateur
Press Society with the above initials) consti-
tute a truly remarkable body of no-pay pub-
lishers.

Most of the work is keyed to a light level —
at any rate it is supposed to be. Of course
there are always a few leftovers from the
immortal F. P. A.’s long-gone creation, Dul-
cinea and her group of serious thinkers,
whom Messrs. Kaufman and Connolley mar-
keted successfully on Broadway some 26
years ago under the title of “Dulcy” and with
assists from Lynne Fontanne and Alfred
Lunt.

These heavyweights go into their sermons
at the drop of an India paper Bible page and
bray merrily against totalitarianism and the
atom bomb and the inevitable dreary like —
but fortunately they are in a very small
minority. Most of the SAPS are out for a
jolly old time and the devil take the hind-
most.

One Con Pederson of 705 West Kelso,
Inglewood, California, really works at it. His
little brochure is entitled SNARL and sub-
titled “The Mag with an Inferiority Com-
plex.” Page 2 reveals why, leaving the reader
in no suspense.

There a poem by Walt Davis begins (no
kidding) with —

"Four and twenty spaceships
Coming down to Earth. . .

172

— and is followed by something called
“Who Knocks” by Delbert Grant that goes,
in part —

“Who knocks? Who knocks upon the wooden
door?

Who knocks as if for evermore?

Who knocks?

“Who knocks. .

— but by this time you should have the
idea. A knockout in the most complete sense
of the word. Yes, SNARL has a right to its
inferiority complex. Another issue like the
last and it will have a right to a persecution
complex.

More SAPSines

However, Henry M. Spelman III of 75
Sparks Street, Cambridge 38, Massachusetts,
who puts out a SAPSine entitled NAMLEPS
(no, we don’t know what it means either)
tops the Pederson entry with the subtitle —
“The Sapsine that were better dead.” And,
to our mild surprise, we took only a brief
time to discover that perhaps Mr. Spelman
was not kidding at all.

FROZINE, another SAPS item exposed by
Phil Froeder of 448 Demarest Avenue, Clos-
ter, New Jersey, carried the attack right into
this editor’s front yard via a peck of penta-
meter by Joe Schaumburger entitled JOB-
BERWIGGLE.

It goes like this —

’Twas Thrilling and the slimy covers
Did bounce and wriggle on the stands
The female of a pair of lovers
Tried to escape the Monster’s hands.

The hero’s vortex gun in hand
The hero’s face so grimly set
(Obeying some unseen command
Or possibly to win a bet).

Note well his firm determined look
How calm he contemplates the gore
(Only a cover on a book
And frozen thus forevermore) .

No comment.

Paging Diogenes

Frankness, of course, is one of the great
virtues of amateur publishing — heck, they
can afford it! For instance, Earl Dodge of
680 Duke Street, Northumberland, Pennsyl-
vania, who puts out something called

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SCYLLA, says to his readers, after stating
that his ’zine costs 15c, “You’re foolish if you
order more than one in advance, however
(That is, right now). Later, perhaps, we can
be more certain of matters.”

If you had lived in the time of Diogenes,
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housing shortage in a lot sooner than he did.
Bless you, fellow, for the chuckle of the
month.

Walter A. Coslet (Coswal) of P.O. Box
No. 6, Helena, Montana, comes up with a
strictly involuntary giggle in his “thing”
called SNIX, while advertising his mimeo-
graph service for ambitious fanzineers. Says
he, in small capitals —

. . . .ABSOLUTELY NO EXTRA CHARGE FOR RUN-
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It is to our way of thinking that Mr. Coslet
had better get some ink which won’t run even
on one side of the paper.

Final absurdity this time comes from the
Editor’s Page of the modestly entitled UNI-
VERSE, a fanzine recently inaugurated by
Ray Nelson of 433 East Chapin Street, Cadil-
lac, Michigan. In the course of soliciting for
material he says —

“What kind of material does this mag
want? Anything at all. It doesn’t have to be
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helps. All it has to be is new and original.”

Oh, brother! that’s all!

—THE EDITOR.

AN UNUSUAL SPECIAL FEATURE!

FROM

PEAS

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By F. ORLIN TREMAINE

COMING NEXT ISSUE!

174

SCIENCE FICTION
BOOK REVIEW

THE CHECKLIST OF FANTASTIC LITERATURE,
Edited by Everett F. Bleiler, Shasta Publishers, Chi-
cago, Illinois ($6.00).

Those frivolous readers of science fiction
who care only for the excitement of reading
without further consideration, who are con-
tent to purchase current issues as they come
out (mind you, we’re on their side) and
whose only concern is whether or not the
space-traveling hero rescues the Bern-

trapped wench from foul captivity, won’t get
much out of the CHECKLIST.

But those who delve deeper into fantasy,
who wish to discover its origins, the work of
its early masters and its masterpieces which
have won for themselves an enduring place
in the sphere of literature as well as popular
esteem, will find it well worth the somewhat
inflationary price. Naturally, it is a must for
collectors.

From Dean Jonathan Swift and Adam Sea-
born, whose “Symmzonia; a Voyage of Dis-
covery” under the pseudonym of John C.
Symmes stirred up a considerable ruckus in
1820, to the modern “Mr. Adam” of Pat
Frank, the CHECKLIST has just about every
author and book title of any import in the
history of Anglo-American fantasy and
science fiction.

Furthermore, its 452 pages contain not only
lists of works by authors but by titles, thus
making it easy to find just about anything
from A. E. to L. Zugsmith or, by titles, from
“!!!” by George Hepworth to “Zoroaster” by
F. Marion Crawford.

Preface and introduction by Editor Bleiler,
well-integrated appendix notes which should
prove fascinating to browsers and biblio-

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philes and a sort of CHECKLIST checklist of
Critical and Historical Reference Works com-
plete the edition. Considering the work that
must have gone into this exhaustive compila-
tion, all we can say is, “Whew!”

THE BLACK WHEEL, by A. Merritt, completed and
illustrated by Hannes Bok. New Collectors’ Group,
New York ($3.00).

Once again, as in the case of THE BLUE
PAGODA, Mr. Bok has taken an unfinished
posthumous novel by the late great fantasist,
A. Merritt, and has equipped it with a mid-
section and a finale as well as with a number
of his inimitable lithographic drawings.

Taken all in all it seems to us that Mr. Bok
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with PAGODA but that his basic material
was a bit weaker. For this story of weird an-
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terious pilot wheel taken from a long-since-
wrecked slaver that came to grief on a West
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the old slaver captain (or is he a reincarna-
tion of that somewhat unpleasant personal-
ity?) becoming thoroughly possessed once he
comes into possession of the wheel with its
Carved human hands. There are zombie-ish
creatures living in caves on the rim of a
lagoon to which his yacht is storm driven, a
ghost ship and legends of ancient African
magic which come inexplicably real.
Probably, if it suffers at all, the book is

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176

afflicted by a plethora of eerie happenings, so
many in fact and so completely delved into
that the repetition of mood tends to weaken
them individually and as a whole. And no-
where is the characterization developed to a
point where the reader can actually associate
himself with any of the persons on the pages
before him and care about their fates.

However, the book is an entertaining odd-
ity for the most part and — especially if read
at a couple of sessions instead of straight
through — offers a sufficiency of gooseflesh for
wary and unwary alike. We do wish, how-
ever, that it had been set in larger type. As
it is the operation of reading it is a bit hard
on the eyes — more so than on the nerves.

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Another scan

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